Jeremiah's Well
by alice chess
Summary: Post-Dark Knight. In Arkham, the Joker finds his dark view of the world confirmed when the Batman is placed as his new neighbor. But should he be happy about this, or not? Warning: dark/depressing, insanity, violence, possible character death.
1. Part I

_**Author's Note: please read.**_

I came up with this idea a couple days after initially seeing "The Dark Knight," but I've been hesitant to put it into story form. This is mostly because it would be so very taxing of a plot, not only because of the perspective it is told from, but also due to the subject matter. However, I simply sometimes had to take a break from my main fan-fiction, and this is one of those things that just "wouldn't let me go," so I've been working off-and-on on this piece for the better part of several months now (depending on when the actual release date of the "Dark Knight" was, since I can't quite remember).

As it now stands, this is a "post-able" chapter of this concept/plot, and while I have some notes and other stuff for future installments, they aren't written up and could only be posted sporadically, if at all… this probably will end up being a one-shot, depending on how people like it, although it properly deserves to be a full story in its own right (I haven't even gotten into the main bulk of the plotline here… waah). I have my hands tied with _If the Foundations Be Destroyed_, and likely will continue to be hooked on that for some time.

Technically, this story is a sort of "Alternate Universe" to _Foundations_, but it also stands all on its own, so you DON'T need to have read my other story to understand this one. Basically, it should be treated as a "Dark Knight" sequel. Some of the original characters from _Foundations_ are mentioned, but most are just names and I've made sure to explain who everyone is. For anyone who is interested in the timeline shared between the two stories (and/or who has read the other one), in the original story the Joker is held at Arkham for seven months: this one-shot occurs in the sixth out of those seven months, and concerns what "might" have happened if some events prior to _Foundations_ had turned out differently.

For those of you who don't care and/or haven't read the other one, just (hopefully) enjoy, and if you don't mind leave me some feedback on what you think.

Batman belongs to DC Comics.

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**JEREMIAH'S WELL**

"_I think you and I… are destined to do this forever."_

"_You'll be in a padded cell forever!"_

"_Maybe we could _share_ one…"_

— Excerpt from the last conversation between Batman & the Joker in The Dark Knight

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They'd beaten _him_ six times in the past twenty-four hours, and it showed.

One would think that the nurses, of all people, would have cared. The guards, not so much. Especially when one of them had a brother who had been jailed by the now-infamous "Batman." But the nurses? They were supposed to be kind, gentle, and warm bastions of love and healing—besides that, most of them were female, and _he_ bore a fairly pretty face. At least, he would have thought so, if he were a woman.

This thought caused the Joker to snort, as he rolled over on his stomach. Picturing himself as female was as idiotic an idea as he'd come up with yet, trapped in this horrid place, and caused him to almost roll his eyes in exasperation. This building _did_ things to you, with its quiet atmosphere, its sterile white walls, hard cold floors, the dim ceiling lights... it would make you half believe that you truly _were_ mad, if you let it. Well, he was not going to tolerate that. He was sane, completely and unfortunately sane, and he of all people should know this all too well.

His brown eyes never left the glass before him; they never shifted from the dark form on the other side of the windowpane. _He_ was so still...

It was as if he didn't dare take his gaze off _him,_ not for one minute, not for one second, lest his companion be whisked away, never to be seen or heard from any longer. And the Joker simply refused to let that happen. After endless months in this hellhole, he had started to believe he would never be free, never see the sky, never find anything remotely worth his while ever, ever again. Then the newspaper—sometimes they let the "patients" read it in the common room—had said something that the Joker had thought impossible. The headline had haunted him for weeks.

**BAT MAN CAPTURED: VIGILANTE KNOWN AS "SILOUHETTE" SAVES GOTHAM FROM CAPED CRUSADER**

He had been forced to read the headline, over and over, until the reality of it sank in. When it did, the Joker did not know whether to laugh or cry. His great enemy, his rival, his "other half," had been captured by the very people that _he_ had been trying so hard to protect. It would be hard to play with _him,_ now that _he_ was in jail, once the Joker found his way out of this hellhole.

On the other hand, the clown couldn't help but see the entire situation as funny. Batman was betrayed. Hadn't he, the Joker, warned _him?_ Hadn't he tried to help? _"They'll cast you out,"_ he'd said; he'd _specifically_ tried to explain the cruel natures of the world, but the Batman wouldn't listen. Oh, no, _he_ had to be all self-righteous, all moral, all uplifting and good and true. Now _he'd_ pay for it in the county jail. The clown couldn't help but wonder—were he to meet his erstwhile pupil, would the Batman's perspective have changed?

That's really how the Joker had regarded the Bat Man: a pupil. The perfect student. The man who was just like him, who the world would condemn, call a freak, label as a lunatic, despise, reject, and finally hole up somewhere like Arkham. All so that _he_ wouldn't trouble their petty little minds and longer. Out of sight, out of mind. They would never know how important _he_ was—well, no, that wasn't quite right. They most _certainly_ knew how important _he_ was, and they hated _him_ for it. _He_ showed them things they didn't want to see. And so they wanted to forget the Bat Man, as they wanted to forget the Joker. They would call the vigilante a madman so they didn't have to listen—and they would throw _him_ into the proverbial abandoned well and let _him_ rot.

Oh, how the Joker loved being right. Even when he didn't know just how right he was.

So he'd settled for neither laughing nor crying, and the next session with Quinzel he'd poured out a long diatribe of how _conflicted_ this made him feel, how _insecure_, how utterly _apprehensive_ he was of the future. With Batman not out there protecting the streets, who would stop all the insane lunatics of this city? Surely, didn't she know, that there'd be madmen running loose, without the caped crusader to put a stop to them? And Quinzel, in her typical befuddled manner, just _had_ to ask him why he cared.

"Because, my luverly _Harlequin—_" oh, he loved the way that nickname made her twitch in indignation, how she gripped her little ball-point pen tight in those well-manicured hands— "I _care_ about what happens to, uh, _this _city. I don't want… loonies… ripping her _apart_. After all—" he raised his eyebrows, bringing his torn lips into a small pout, slipping on that mask of perfect innocence that he'd perfected with _so much_ steady practice— "_I_ am not crazy."

Aha. That'd unnerved her. He could tell—and his suspicion was confirmed when she called the session to an end five minutes ahead of schedule. And, while he knew he'd regret it the next time Dr. Varnham decided to test out some new drug on his system (a worthy heir of Dr. Crane, that man was), he couldn't resist blowing her an exaggerated kiss as she hurried from the room. Her footsteps increased in pace as she fairly fled down the hall. That night, he laughed so hard in his "bedroom"—his _cell_, was more like it—that the second shift guard had ordered him to be sedated. Even then the odd giggling snort could still be heard, every so often, if someone in the hall listened hard enough.

Let Quinzel's morals try to protect him from Varnham, now. She'd hate him for weeks for that one, he knew. No matter—she was only a mere diversion, anyway, now that he'd had the papers to keep him company. When he'd first come to this hellhole the Joker had seen Quinzel's ethical principles, as quickly as if they were worn on the brim of her sharp little glasses; and, he'd decided, if he couldn't play with the Bat Man, then she was a suitable substitute. But, as always, the copy was only a failed imitation of the original, and he'd grown bored with her soon enough. Now for once the papers had a subject that had interested him; he could read them, ponder their subtexts, and allow himself to daydream.

He had followed the headlines religiously. The guards began to notice that his behavior had markedly improved. No more snide comments, no vague threats, no lackadaisical grin at inopportune moments… he was an angel. So they began to let him into the common room every week, for an entire hour each Saturday, and soon enough with a few harsh looks and well-placed remarks the other prisoners knew to leave the papers alone. To leave them, unread and ready, for his use only. And the guards were none the wiser.

At night the Joker's dreams had become filled with exploding hospitals and ferries bursting into flames; he saw Gambol's face before him, those dark eyes filled with terror, revealing the mobster to be a coward deep inside; the Chechen was snarling "freak" at him, and receiving his comeuppance; Dent was struggling, first physically, then mentally, and losing—losing so very badly, too; the Batman's enraged grip was on his collar, guttural voice snarling, but he knew better… oh, he knew so well what the Bat Man so adamantly refused to see. The vigilante wanted to better the city, to help it out of the ashes with _his_ morals and _his_ goodness, but all _he_ was doing was circling them right back into the ditch. _If the blind lead the blind…_

Good times, good times.

On the third Saturday of his improved behavior, however, the headlines had given the Joker news that shocked him so badly, he had to put down the paper, lest anyone see his hands shaking. Already everyone here had seen him without his war paint—it wouldn't do to let them see anything else inside of him.

He was rarely surprised. While he'd easily convinced Dent to believe one thing, in reality it was quite the opposite. The Joker was a planner. A schemer. A dreamer, imagining up fancy fantasies… he calculated so much, and so often, that usually he had everything accounted for. During his little "reign" of Gotham city, he'd designed and considered each little detail, almost to the point of redundancy. This way, when things occurred, he was well prepared to counter them.

Oh, there were little surprises every now and then: when that louse, Colman Reese, had gone to the TV stations claiming to know Batman, the Joker had been very excited by this new prospect. But that was all those "surprises" had been—new prospects. New toys to add to his collection.

Only once had he been surprised during his reign as Gotham's cheerful jester. Whenever he thought back on that incident now, he remembered the wind howling in his ears, the sight of the concrete zooming towards him, and the dizzying feeling of blood rushing up to his head; most of all, he recalled his utter confusion as his fall had started to _slow down_… but no. No—this latest surprise at Arkham, the headline his eyes had just run across, had spoiled everything. It was the sort of surprise that reminded the Joker of why he hated true surprises.

A sense of panic and nostalgia swept over him. Panic, because of the implications of what he'd just read. Nostalgia, because he thought of the good old days when Batman was just a nameless fellow under a mask. But now… the headline had ruined it all:

**BRUCE WAYNE is the BAT MAN!**

The very moment those words struck his eyeballs, he hadn't wanted to learn any more—honestly, the Joker didn't. Yet at the same time something else had been pushing him, deep inside, begging for a closer look. And resist this urge though he might, he'd learned long ago not to bother. After all, not everything he'd told Dent had been a lie—that was part of the beauty of the DA's terrible fall. The Joker knew how he behaved: he knew all too well that sometimes he _just_ _did things_. It was useless to deny those forces that compelled him to act, doubly so because normally they ended up bringing about some very useful and hilarious consequences.

Carefully, so he would not reveal the slight tremble running through his fingers, he had picked up the paper once more. The article's language was sensationalist, recounting all the connections between the Bat Man and Bruce Wayne: they had both (re-)appeared in Gotham around the same time, both were the same height and stature, Wayne always had mysterious injuries, Batman always had mysterious (expensive) gadgets, and on and on…

'_If it were that simple,'_ the clown had snorted mentally, _'Why didn't you people figure it out until now, when some pathetic squealer-cop leaked it to you for a buck?'_

But… Bruce Wayne? His arch-nemesis, the man behind the mask, the man who growled and had flung him about the interrogation cell like a rag doll, the same vigilante who had so surprised him on the Pruitt building… was…

Bruce Wayne. A floundering playboy, whittling away at _his_ parents' fortune with hot babes and expensive cars. The same man who'd made a run for it when the Joker had shown up at _his_ penthouse party… who was omnipresent in every tabloid and every magazine, who'd been named number two of the nation's most eligible bachelors (the other being a richer and yet much older fellow billionaire)… Bruce Wayne… who'd… who'd… _burned down_ his _own mansion in a drunken stupor…_

Bruce Wayne was an unintelligent, obtuse, ridiculous trust fund baby. A playboy who had too much money and not enough time to spend it. Worthless.

In a sudden fit of rage, the Joker tore the paper. No, no, _NO!_ It couldn't be. This was a trick. A sick joke. The man behind the bat mask was _not_ a brainless floozy! Naïve, yes, the Joker could stomach the Batman being that—but a true idiot? No!

Gritting his teeth, he carefully held the shredded pieces of the paper together, searching for the name of the fool who had written this garbage. Ah, there it was: _Montana Payton_. Well, Miss Payton, he wanted to say, I hope you enjoy what little time you have left, because when I get out of here I am going to kill you first—before Varnham, before Quinzel, before my stupid defense lawyer and the new DA! And it won't be pretty, neither!

Huddling his arms around himself, the clown sunk deeper into the chair he'd been perched on, huffing like a toddler upset at not being given a promised present during his birthday party. Oh, the inhumanity of what his life had become—he couldn't even have his dreams of a worthy opponent any longer.

But… at the same time… yes, _yes_, Bruce Wayne _was_ a moron. A rich, womanizing, arrogant, disdainful, and egotistical moron. This was the guy who had taken an entire boatload of lavish ballerinas onto his yacht, and to hell with anyone who'd actually paid for tickets to see them perform. Not very nice of him—and, come to think of it, not very _moral_ either, lounging in the sun with two dozen (half?)-naked babes…

If the Batman _was_ Bruce Wayne, a known supporter of moral decay…

Perhaps this meant that the vigilante was not honorably upright after all. For, while the playboy routine might be an act, the Joker knew better—he knew that within every pantomime, there was a bit of truth. True, not every role told the _factual _truth: an actor playing a man who lost his father may not be an orphan, in reality… but the actor had still felt sadness and loneliness, at least in some small part, in order to call that emotion up while playing his role. Therefore, if Batman was Bruce Wayne, surely _he_ must have some small little spark of immorality in _him_, somewhere. What would happen if the Joker fanned the flames?

Maybe… the clown thought, maybe he just hadn't pushed the vigilante _hard_ enough…

The paper was too ripped for him to continue reading it, so he'd gone back to the pile for a different one. Settling himself back into his favorite chair, ignoring the way Dr. Crane had a slim eyebrow raised at his behavior, the Joker had prepared himself for a long and intense read. He never read anything for pleasure—it was too much work, piecing the letters and strings of words together with their meanings ("dyslexia," Quinzel had claimed this "problem" of his was called)—and besides, he knew that in every story there was a level of unspoken truths hidden beneath the surface. When it concerned the Bat Man, however, he was willing to put forth the effort to decipher everything.

Unfortunately the story told him next to nothing. It claimed that Bruce Wayne had been unmasked within hours of landing in police custody, but that due to fear over the public's reaction, his identity as the caped crusader had been kept quiet—'_Gordon,'_ the clown snorted, '_such a _pa-_the_-tic_ excuse.' _Further noted was the list of similarities between Wayne and the Bat Man—something the Joker had already read. What caught the clown's eye was the claim that, upon being unmasked, Mr. Wayne had fully cooperated with the authorities, and had dictated a record of _his_ activities and whereabouts on certain dates. According to the paper, _he'd_ learned to fight while hiding in China with outlaws—and that _his_ mentor had been Ra's al-Ghul, the same sociopath who had attempted to unleash a toxin upon the city.

Yeah, right. The Joker could have giggled. What fools did the papers take their readers for? This made the Bat Man sound like a comic book…

At the very end of the article, however, was something that brought the clown's merriment to a pause. It was an interview with a psychologist—Varnham. Damn, but why hadn't he expected this? As his mud-colored eyes scanned the paper, they narrowed and narrowed until they became small, needle-thin slits. According to Varnham (who freely admitted that he hadn't been given access to Wayne), preliminary overviews of the Bat Man's statements revealed a man who was deeply insane, entrenched in the loss of his parents and desperate for attention.

Ah. How the clown loved being right. The Bat Man was cast out. _He_ was a madman—the modern-day equivalent of a _leper_. And Arkham's head doctor had been the one to start the process…

"_Bat_-Man," the Joker muttered to himself, alone in his cell that night. "Bat, Bats, _Batsy_… Bruce. Uh, _Brucie_. Batsy Brucie. Brucie Batsy. Brucie… _Brucie the Bat._"

For some reason, he liked that last one. It made the Wayne heir sound just _that_ much loonier…

They thought the Batman was crazy. An utter lunatic… the clown felt laughter beginning to well inside him, starting deep in the pit of his stomach and coming up to his hollow chest, right to where the cavernous hole that was supposed to house his heart was. He bit his tongue. Hard. Until blood began to flow, filling his mouth, seeping through the cracks of his bulging lips and trailing down his cheeks, giving him that red smile once more.

No, no, no: he shouldn't laugh. He really, really shouldn't laugh. That damned guard was nearby—the dull man would have him drugged up, just to finish his shift in peace. But then the fluid reached a level where it got into his nasal cavity, and, understandably, it tickled. He couldn't stop a rough snort from involuntarily escaping. Unfortunately, once his mouth was open he choked up the fount of blood in it, his trapped laughter expelled from his innards with such force that spurts of thick crimson were shot halfway across the room.

"He's a _lunatic! _A_ lunatic!_ L-u_uu-_nna_aaa_-tic-tic-_tic!_ A_ha_, haa, haaaaa, haa_aaaAAAA_—"

Predictably enough—but of course it was so, because he, the Joker, had been the one to foresee it—the guard once again had him sedated. Ah, well. He'd find a way to kill that man later. Along with Varnham and Quinzel, the night-shift guard now had a bloody target applied to the corners of his mouth.

Drugs always had strange effects on the Joker. While under their spell he saw things that didn't seem quite real: shattered images of people he struggled to remember, whose blurry faces he couldn't just place, but who probably were better left forgotten anyway. Deep within his mind, his thoughts seemed to curl in on themselves, gathering together into a larger and larger knot, until they seemed to be pressuring the inside of his head. His skull was feeling the stress, the strain… his head was going to explode. Sleep—the kind of sleep he dreaded, for it would have no dreams and no chances for early awakenings—was sneaking up on him, ready to bash his skull in… or _out_, as it were.

Yet before it did—before that horrible, all-too-well-known slumber of the medicine claimed the shattered shreds of his mind—his remaining mental faculties continued to focus on _Brucie the Bat_. Poor fellow, the Joker thought—they all believe that _he's_ crazy. They'll lock _him_ up. It would destroy _him_, it really would—the clown didn't question how he knew this; he, as Batman's fellow "freak," just knew. Someone like the Bat Man had to be free, to beat _his_ wings in the air and soar from rooftop to rooftop. A cage… a cage would break _him_, smash those thin filmy wings and leave _him_ blind and helpless, trapped in _his_ prison forever. Such a sad, sad little ending for such an interesting fellow, a man with such potential for harm... it kind of reminded the Joker of himself, locked away in this horrible little "hospital"—this _Hell_, was more like it.

'_What if… what if… they put _him_ in _here?' He pondered, drowsily, vainly and unconsciously struggling against the sleep even now overwhelming him. _'_He'd _really have a tough time with that… can't _really _say I'd like to see _him_ fall apart… but how… how I'd love to say, "I told you so"…'_

Sometimes his mind conjured up strange things. But, strange or not, conscious or not, he was rarely wrong.

Varnham warned him some days later that he was getting a new neighbor, spouting out some nonsense about him and the "new guy" being more likely to identify with each other's troubles because they were both freshly interred in Arkham, unlike him and Slink, who had previously been housed in the Joker's neighboring cell.

Being at the lowest, most secure area of the Asylum, the clown had previously possessed only two other permanent companions, a serial murderer who only responded to the title "Slink," and a much older man whose nameless crimes had made him unfit even for the most basic of therapy, whose name was merely "Wendigo." For some time now Wendigo had been housed alone, with the Joker and Slink sharing neighboring cells that had one five-foot sheet of plexiglass on the middle wall, toward the front, so that if they so wished they could see one another and interact, while still allowing each a measure of privacy should he desire to be left alone.

Quite quickly the Joker had learned that Slink was entirely boring, without a humorous bone in his entire thin, whip-like body. He'd even gotten to the point of not bothering to teach the pale man any sense of humor, either, for he'd found that Slink's reactions were always lacking and hence always unfunny. It simply wasn't worth the effort.

But he _had_ paid strict attention as Slink's room was cleared out. The Joker had nodded pleasantly enough to his erstwhile companion, declaring through the cell's bars that Slink would be _missed_, and that he should be sure to give Wendigo the Joker's regards. As always Slink had just stared at him, blinking owlishly once or twice, before being shuffled away by the guards.

"Thank goodness he's gone," the clown had told the man behind his own warped, plastic mirror. Now that Slink had been removed, and since his new neighbor had not yet arrived, the stranger behind the shiny plastic was his only company. He knew what a mirror was, of course, and he knew all about reflections—but he also knew what his own face looked like, and while the stranger in the mirror certainly had scars on his cheeks, he also had pale, yellowy-peach skin. There was not a speck of white or red on that other man's visage—ergo, the Joker believed, it was not truly a reflection. At least, not always… Sometimes, he supposed, it could have been, especially since he didn't have his paints with him, and he could probably assume that underneath his war paint his face was a normal color for a Caucasian male.

Nonetheless, he was quite certain that the man in the mirror, at that particular moment, _wasn't_ him. He could always tell when it wasn't—especially now, for an odd look of unhappiness was present on the stranger's face. That expression was often there, and when it was he could be certain that he wasn't seeing his reflection, but something else entirely: the Joker was certain that he was never unhappy. _That_ unhappy, anyway.

"That Slink-o was _cwazy_, you know?" the clown chirped, lifting his hands to spin wheels with his pointer fingers, right at the sides of his head. The universal symbol of lunacy. "Always staring and slobbering. Should-'a grown a beard or something."

He was referring to the odd way that Slink didn't have a single wisp of hair on his body, trying to sound lighthearted and cheer the man in the mirror up, but it didn't seem to work. The stranger continued to look as glum and lonely as ever. Angrily, the clown huffed,

"Fine, then, _be that way!_ Don't come crawling to me when you next want… _in_-formation. I won't talk to you any_more!_"

With that he'd turned, furiously snagged his bed, and dragged the hulking metal frame to the sheet of plexiglass that his room shared with its neighbor. It was hard work—the bed was made of iron, and was fantastically heavy, probably for the purpose of making it too large and bulky to use as any sort of weapon—but he didn't care. While he wasn't one for mindless physical activity, he couldn't deny that it helped keep one's mind delightfully blank at times. The Joker didn't want to see or talk with the mirror-man any longer… he hated being alone. And being alone with only the mirror-man was worst of all. So, whenever his new neighbor would enter, the clown had wanted to be right there to greet him.

A long time still seemed to pass, however. Day and night had no meaning in the bowels of Arkham—the lights dimmed and were brightened, but without a clock it was impossible to tell how the hours passed. This was especially so in the Joker's case, for his room's light had recently gone out and hadn't yet been replaced. The only shreds of luminosity in his existence, therefore, came from the dim bulbs in the hallway, and the much brighter illumination in his neighboring room, which shone through the plexiglass, though not very well. The other room's light was at the wrong angle to cast itself through the glass reliably. He was therefore little more than a shadow, sitting rather humbly on his messy cot, cross-legged, waiting. Alone.

For all he knew it could have been five minutes, or five hours, that ticked by—he would remember this disorientation when he escaped Arkham, that was for sure, and he'd find some way or another to make use of it.

Finally, as his brown eyes were beginning to slide shut—from boredom or exhaustion, he couldn't tell, for to him they were often one and the same—a sound from the far end of the hall reverberated through the walls. It was loud but hollow, sounding as if it was coming from the depths of a long, deep well. _Go get Lassie!_ The thought came to the clown, unbidden, _Timmy's fallen down the well!_

But when he saw who was being led, in Arkham's orange uniform, to his neighboring cell, the Joker mentally corrected himself.

_Not 'Timmy,'_ he chided, _but 'Brucie.' __**Brucie**__ has fallen down the well._

Once again the clown marveled at how wonderfully his mind worked. How had it been able to predict this? The Batman had already shown himself to be unpredictable—oh, how the Joker admired that quality in others, just as he admired it in himself—but surely _he_ wasn't _this_ unpredictable. This was almost beautiful, the ironic way that reality had turned out. It made the clown want to leap off his bed and dance around wildly for joy—conversely, therefore, he clenched his hands, strangling the baggy knees of his uniform with wiry fists. He made no move as the guard and his new neighbor passed by on the way to the other cell's door; it wouldn't do to spoil the game just as it had barely begun.

And what a game it would be! Bruce Wayne, in the neighboring room, unable to get away. _He_ couldn't swoop off to the next rooftop this time, oh no—_he_ was stuck here. _He'd_ have to listen, even if _he_ didn't want to… and the Joker would make sure that his words struck home, this time. The clown's brown eyes were almost greedy, as from the shadows he watched his companion being led inside. Life suddenly had meaning once again.

Quinzel was present, as well—it was she who led Wayne into _his_ room, her petite arms moving in a flourish, as if she was a tour guide in somewhere grand like the _Taj Mahal_. Wayne smiled at her: a roguish, boyish look, so innocent and optimistic that it made the Joker want to gag. The only thing that prevented him from immediately doing so was the knowledge of what was certainly coming.

_Go ahead,_ the clown thought. _Smile, Brucie, _smile_—you'll stop grinning soon enough, when Varnham gets his hands on you… oh, I've no doubt you'll be his pretty new pet… he'll break you, don't worry. You'll learn the feeling of sorrow soon enough. And then… then, when you and I make it out of here, I'll just have to teach you to _smile_ again, won't I, my darling student mine?_

He watched as Quinzel undid the billionaire's handcuffs. Wayne's smile never wavered—_he_ didn't seem to know that the Joker was present. Thoughtfully, in the dark, the older inmate tapped his chin.

_I'll teach _him_ how to smile proper,_ he decided, _with a knife in one hand and blood on the other—that's the best reason to grin_. A wistful look chanced upon the clown's marred features, though he wiped it quickly from his visage. Seeing as he was still somewhat in the shadows and at an odd angle from Wayne's position, he believed that his new neighbor could not see him clearly—still, it wouldn't hurt to take precautions, to hide what he was planning until the last second. The Bat Man was still naïve enough to not know what was good for _him_.

Fortunately, Varnham would probably cure all of that. Though he hated his doctor with a passion bordering on his obsession with the Batman, the Joker still knew how to see past those feelings and use whatever pawns fate had bestowed. In this instance, the man that Dr. Crane had once called "his evil twin" would probably do most of the work for him—it would simply remain for the clown to pick up the shattered pieces of Wayne's psyche and re-arrange them into whatever shape he should so desire. Even Varnham could be useful sometimes, the Joker supposed.

After a brief explanation of the living space, Quinzel did a pathetic imitation of a curtsy (really, _flirting_ with the new arrival while the Joker had been available to her this _entire time?_—the clown felt a flash of some emotion spark through him, but he refused to label it jealousy and snuffed it out quickly), and ducked out of the cell. The guards, however, remained, fingering their cudgels. The _clack, clack, clack_ of Quinzel's heels clicked further and further down the hallway. There was a resounding _boom_ as the hall door opened and shut.

Wayne's smile disappeared.

_Good, good,_ the Joker unclenched and clenched his hands, excitedly. He_ knows what's coming, doesn't _he? _I daresay _he_ knew from the very start! Good, Brucie—give them what's coming to them!_

During, this, the first beating, the Joker had watched with interest. Having been on the receiving ends of the Batman's fists more than just once, he knew how hard and fast they could fly—and he anticipated a brawl of the sort that he could gleefully recall later in the "night," when all was quiet and there was precious little else to do but dream. As an added excitement, one of the guards was the same who kept sedating him—all the more reason to see this man get a thrashing from the Joker's worst enemy and best future pupil.

Unfortunately, the clown was sorely disappointed—yet, at the same time, fantastically intrigued. The Batman had always had a way of doing both to him at the same time…

Wayne did not fight back.

The first swing of a cudgel hit _him_ in the stomach: _he_ went down. _Get back up,_ the Joker had howled, mentally, biting at his torn lips to keep the coaching order quiet. _Don't let them rush you this early! C'mon, have at 'em!_

To the clown's joy, Wayne was on his feet quite quickly—quicker than the Joker could have regained his footing, anyway. Yet utter confusion soon replaced the clown's delight, for Wayne didn't even raise his fists. Something was wrong here… at that precise moment, the thought dawned to him: what if Wayne _wasn't going to fight at all?_

It didn't make sense.

And so, the Joker loved it.

Yet, at the same time, he found that he also hated it.

He couldn't stave off a few winces as the guards' blows landed, having gotten a few thrashings from these particular men a couple times himself. They were the sort of men who didn't hold back—they didn't understand the nuances of using minimal force over a longer period. As a result they tired quite quickly, before vast amounts of damage could be done. This was apparently doubly so with Wayne, who, while not resisting to the point of counter-attack, seemed nonetheless content to duck and avoid their blows. He even managed to "accidentally"—somehow the Joker doubted it was completely unintentional—dart between two of his assailants, with the result that they hit one another. But that was the height of his own defense, for he made no retaliation for scored strikes, no attempt to repay in kind.

In the end, the first brawl lasted not more than ten to fifteen minutes, and at the end of it Wayne was bruised, but not overly perspiring—the three guards, however, were huffing and stooped with exhaustion. _Pigheaded idiots,_ the Joker had snorted, and by then he had come to believe that Wayne's reticence to attack derived from their unworthiness—they simply weren't worth the effort. Snarling four-letter words and other more gross obscenities, they flung the cell door open and shuffled off down the hallway.

At that point the Joker would have revealed himself—he was already itching to do so, the moment Wayne had entered his sight: he savored the idea of seeing the Batman's entire face, unhindered by a mask, the features caught in complete surprise… then turning into aghast horror, a look that the clown's photographic memory could keep forever. But one thing stopped him. His observational skills had never failed—and now, they showed him that the door of Wayne's cell had not been shut entirely. It hung open, perhaps by a half-inch, practically begging for an escape attempt.

From the way Wayne's blue eyes were trained on the entrance, the Joker understood that_ he_ also saw.

The excitement that the clown had experienced before was nothing compared to the sensation now. The Batman was going to escape, right here, right at this very moment, right before his very eyes! Tension filled him, his foot giving off little jerks as if attempting to tap the floor, his fingers twitching almost frantically on his knees—he wanted to laugh, to laugh and laugh and laugh, his standard reaction to anything important in this funny, funny world. But something else was bothering him, in the back of his head… he listened to it for one second, as Wayne stood still, seemingly considering _his_ options. As the vigilante crossed _his_ room, slowly, deliberately, suddenly the Joker understood what the nagging feeling in the recesses of his mind was saying.

_Ah, Brucie, _the clown would have shaken his head, if he hadn't been so focused on keeping Wayne in his sights, _you batty little fool._

Wayne shut the door.

At the _click!_ of the entrance's automatic lock, the Joker had to plaster his palms over his mouth, to keep from screaming out in merriment. Of course! _Of course!_ He wanted to shriek with hilarity, howl like a wounded dog; never in his whole life had the clown wanted to laugh so badly. But he couldn't… he didn't dare… and the reason why came to him quite quickly, as Wayne turned back around to stride over to _his_ bed. The look of resignation, yet of bitter determination, was enough for the clown to spend lifetimes relishing. He didn't want to interrupt those wonderfully despairing thoughts that were assuredly filling the vigilante's head.

_Why do you do it, Batsy my old friend?_ The Joker wanted to ask, to prod, to berate… _Why do you follow the rules if they bring you nothing but pain? Screw the judge and the jury who locked you up—they were probably bribed by the mob, anyway. If you want to go free, then go! You'll break some of the rules—you'll run about at night in an armored car, chasing down gangsters and beating up drug lords—but you still won't bring yourself freedom and happiness? All because _they_ say that you can't? Truly, Brucie, you really are _mad_, and yet you call _me_ crazy.._.

There would be plenty of time to pick the Batman's mind for answers later, though. Plenty of time to reason with _him_. Plenty of time to make _him_ see the error of _his_ ways… the Joker settled farther back on his cot, further draping himself in the shadows, to watch Wayne run _his_ fingers nervously through _his_ dark hair (somehow, perhaps due to Dent's false claim that he was the Batman, the Joker had been picturing his archnemesis with blonde hair, instead of black… but he supposed a beggar like him couldn't be a chooser). Wayne seemed to know that _his_ troubles were not over—and the Joker, who knew the guards from the length of his own captivity, was quite pleased to see that his companion was not a complete blockhead in this respect.

The second beating had five guards versus one dodging prisoner. After fifteen more minutes of ceaseless activity, Wayne sat on _his _cot nursing a black eye, and the guards were leaning on one another for support as they hobbled, out of breath, down the hall. Still the Joker said and did nothing, did not call attention to himself. The guards would be back—with reinforcements.

At the start of the third free-for-all, Wayne finally spoke. From the shadows, still watching unnoticed, the Joker marveled at how different _his_ voice sounded—this was not the gravelly, harsh tones of the masked man, but of a smooth, far more refined, upper-class individual. Some part of the clown laughed—internally, of course—at the thought of the voices being reversed: Wayne using the harsh voice, while the Batman used the softer one. The two separate intonations suited his enemy's two halves, but were certainly not interchangeable.

"Don't you people have something better to do?" Wayne demanded, as eight guards filed into _his_ cell, each of them ominously silent, making no move until they all were inside. Their target glared at them from _his_ cot—_he_ had to know, _he_ just _had_ to, the Joker thought, that there were too many for _him_… they practically filled the room.

This beating had been longer. More men, taking turns (there simply wasn't space to rush _him_ all at once), meant that the event was a drawn-out affair. Wayne still did not fight back, though _his_ ability to move and avoid the blows had become as narrow as the space _his_ person was confined in. At the end, _he_ was left lying prone on the floor, motionless, as the guards almost lazily swaggered out, congratulating themselves on a victory "well won."

A while later, Wayne managed to stagger to _his_ feet. _He _seemed disoriented—not that the Joker blamed _him_. With a groan, the vigilante allowed _himself_ to fall down on _his_ cot, _his_ heaving chest communicating the labor that it took to breathe. Blood trickled from a cut on _his_ temple. _He _slept. Seeing this, and not wanting to interrupt, the Joker continued to keep quiet.

The fourth beating interrupted this slumber. Wayne let out a startled yell when struck, and kicked out automatically, catching one of _his_ assailants in the chest. There had only been two guards, that time—the Joker supposed that the duo believed Wayne to be far enough gone that anyone could best _him_. They had apparently been wrong, for the kicked man fell to the floor, gasping and clutching wildly at his sternum. His companion seemed to be infuriated, rather than concerned for his fellow guard, and he lashed out at Wayne with his cudgel. The Batman endured several hits—once, twice, three, _four_ times—before seizing the stick on the fifth stroke and wrenching it from the guard's hands, _his_ own hurts notwithstanding.

Overcome with anger and what looked to be more than a little frustration, _he_ flung the implement—not at the cowering guards, but apparently in a random direction. It struck the plexiglass separating _his_ and the Joker's cells: in the dark, the clown jerked with surprise, even scooting back slightly, although not a single scratch appeared on the barrier. The resounding _crack!_ echoed, disturbingly loud, down the hall. Once again the Joker found himself associating the sound to that produced in the bottom of a well—there really was no other apt comparison.

Down the hallway came an inhuman howl—Wendigo was upset. Generally it took a lot to rattle that psycho… the Joker found himself chuckling, resisting the urge to clap. _Well done, Brucie! Well done! Not bad for your first time here_. The clown watched with merriment as both guards' faces paled, turning snow-white, and they scrambled from the room, the uninjured one fleeing ahead and leaving his pleading companion to trail behind. Once again Wayne's cell door was left hanging wide open.

_Buffoons,_ the Joker snorted, _now, if you'd done that with _me…

But he was far more interested in Wayne's reactions to Wendigo's cries than he was with the fleeing guards. The vigilante was frozen, listening intently to the yowling, animalistic screams, his face not unlike that of a man who had just been badly bitten by his beloved pet. Shock. A certain amount of distaste. More shock. And… curiosity.

That look—_curiosity_—nearly sent the Joker into a frenzy, he so desired to reveal himself and probe at it, trying to see what it meant. Interested, Brucie? In what? Curious what your friendly neighborhood of fellow "lunatics" has done, to be exiled into this hellhole? You're one of us, now, don't you know? That thing screaming—it's not a man, it's a _freak_, just like you. Just like all of us.

_Now that you've woken him up,_ Joker wanted to say, _want to go meet the rest of the cul-de-sac? Want to see what Gotham feared, in the days before the two of us? You can do it, Brucie. The door's open…_

A little hesitantly, probably more so because of his troubled mind than any truly debilitating injury, Wayne stood and approached the entrance. _He_ seemed to consider leaving, this time, perhaps investigating the sound—oh, and the Joker enjoyed every minute of _his_ uncertainty—but then _he _seemed to decide against it. Once more _he_ shut the door.

Tsk, tsk.

The Joker was shaking his head, slowly, wanting very much to reach into the neighboring cell and give Wayne a beating himself. Where was the fun if you were just going to play it safe? _C'mon, Brucie—live a little._

But the clown's motion must have caught Wayne's eye, for the vigilante stopped on _his_ way back to _his_ bed, and, frowning, peered through the plexiglass. Immediately the Joker went very still. Some part of his mind—the same part that had demanded he continue perusing the paper, when he'd first read that awful headline revealing the Bat Man's identity—told him that _now_ was not the time. Silently he thanked whatever supernatural being had been looking out for him—God, or the devil, he didn't know and honestly didn't care—had broken the light in the top of his cell. He was bathed in darkness—and Wayne, who was silhouetted in light, couldn't see effectively into the black gloom.

_Quite a pair we make,_ the clown thought. _Me in the dark and you in the light. Black and white. Yin and yang. But you know, you go out into the dark too, Brucie. You have plenty of fun as the Bat Man. Why don't you just stay here in the shadows? We'll have a grand old time chopping Gordon into bits and blowing Gotham sky-high. Not to mention cutting out Wendigo's tongue…_

Wendigo was still howling.

Wayne apparently had figured that the movement had been nothing, for _he _settled back onto _his _bed, a bit gingerly from _his _wounds, although every so often _his _eyes darted suspiciously back toward the plexiglass. _He_ suspected something. Internally the Joker was clapping with glee. This was a new and wonderful game: _who can spot the clown?_

Unfortunately it did not last long, for evidently the two guards had told their tale to their friends, who slammed the hallway door and approached with pounding footsteps. In the face of such a racket even Wendigo went quiet. Wayne had a look of pained resignation on his bruised face. On the other side of the glass, the Joker's eyes narrowed. This was not good… _not… at… all…_

In that, the fifth beating, Wayne was pounded into unconsciousness. They left _him_ lying there on the concrete ground, and the Joker made sure to memorize each of their faces. A few of them he hadn't even seen before. It was best to know whom to kill slowly, once he got out of here, and who deserved a quick death. His list of targets had grown exponentially in the past few minutes.

For the sixth beating, which must have occurred some hours later, Wayne was barely aware enough to know what was happening, and the Joker honestly couldn't tell if the vigilante felt any of it. Once again _he_ was abandoned on the floor, this time in quite a different shape than _he'd_ started out with, lying in a widening pool of red. A small bead of blood slipped from the corner of_ his_ mouth—bruises littered any exposed skin, while _his _left hand had been stepped on and crushed. The observing clown was certain that no small amount of ribs were broken.

Yes, heads were going to roll. Not just because the guards had dared to mar the Joker's own turf—if anyone had the right to beat the Batman into unconsciousness, it certainly was him, the clown prince of crime, and _not_ Arkham's finest—but also because they had gone too far while doing it. The Joker had no problem with someone roughing up his fellow freak, if they were careful… but leaving _him_ half-dead spelled a death sentence for _his_ attackers. Leaning forward on his cot, the clown kept one eye on Wayne's motionless form, afraid to look away—the other half of his mind was engaged in planning, thinking through the various methods of execution that the Batman's tormentors could expect, once he was free.

And, he had no doubt, eventually that time would come. Maybe hours from now—maybe days, weeks, months. Perhaps even years. But, as bad as the Joker's memory could be, when it came to the important thinks his mind was like a steel trap—it didn't let go.

The lights of Arkham were dimmed for an artificial night, when another slam from the hallway entrance came. The shuffle of boots revealed a solitary guard, who with only a slight grimace entered Wayne's cell, seized the bloody man under the armpits, and hauled the unconscious form to _his_ cot, where _he_ was dropped unceremoniously.

Wiping his hands with distaste, the guard glanced casually at the plexiglass on his way out—to find the Joker's brown eyes staring intently at him, his nose nearly pressed up against the glass. In the dim light it must have been possible to see through the gloom of the Joker's cell, for the guard let out a high-pitched shriek, and made a run for it. This only served to bring a smile to the clown's abused lips—for a while he forgot his scheming, and simply enjoyed the fact that even while they believed he was on his best behavior, he could still scare the guards while they were alone. Some minutes later a groan came from Wayne, shifting the Joker's mind back to his companion.

That was how things had been, the past few hours. The Joker knew that the "nighttime"—assuming of course that the darkening of Arkham's lighting truly coincided with _night_time, and not the daylight, for with Varnham the clown could never really be certain—would last for a while yet. There was nothing to do during these periods of darkness. It was usually during these times that he would start to question himself—was he going mad, or not? Was this place driving him insane? Was he smart enough to avoid becoming a lunatic? But, for once, these questions were laid aside. He had bigger things to think of—smaller ones, too. Where were those damned Arkham nurses? You would think that they would have cared about one of their charges being beaten…

And, lying on _his_ cot, Brucie was so _still…_

_He's_ strong, though, the clown told himself. _He'll _survive this. Whether _his_ stubborn idiocy will survive… that's the question.

Another, wider smile pulled at the clown's lips. Already, the Joker had an idea what the answer to that question would be. He would personally ensure it.

This was a second chance. A chance to make thing right. His pupil had been delivered to him—_he_ was lying on the other side of that glass, motionless. Ripe. Perfect for plucking, for planting into the fertile ground of madness. When the Joker finally escaped—and yes, he had no doubt he would indeed make it out, eventually—Gotham would be sorry. Gotham would rue the day it ever condemned the Batman, its dark hero. For the day would come when Gotham would not be facing just one Joker—but two.

At that pleasing thought the clown's hand reached up, his sharp fingers touching the plexiglass, almost gently caressing the outline of Wayne's pale, marble-white face, lingering over the patched, purple bruises, which in the darkness of the cell had turned to splotches of black ink. The body on the other side of the glass shuddered suddenly, as if it could feel those cold fingers closing around its throat… and the Joker was glad, for this meant that his neighbor most certainly was alive. Dead bodies do not tremble from nightmares… nor do they relax, once the imagined terror is over.

Soon enough that ashen face's peaceful, numb expression would be contorted in agony, as Varnham went to work. The pain now would be nothing compared to then—for this was a _natural_ pain, which came from identifiable wounds and in familiar patterns of throbbing and aching. Varnham had ways of inducing suffering in levels and methods unlike anything the clown had ever seen or felt—and he doubted that his companion had experienced them before, either. The doctor didn't need to inflict injury to cause hurt—mental and physical, his modes of triggering anguish were all his own: untraceable, leaving no sign of permanency on the body, but instead enduring on the mind. He was an effective tormentor, the Joker would give him that much… perhaps even, in a certain way, the clown admired him for it. Varnham would have no qualms about breaking the Batman's mind, peeling back the layers of consciousness and mental resistance until everything was laid bare… until nothing was sacred.

For Varnham knew the rules just as much as the Joker did: he knew they didn't really exist. Nobody cares about the lepers cast out—nobody cares for the _freaks_, no matter what their intentions had been, for good or for evil; in Arkham, everyone was a lost cause. Gotham would not weep for its dark hero.

Things would start tomorrow. How long would the great Bat Man last? Did it matter? Time had no meaning here. Sunlight did not reach this far down into the deep, dark depths of the well… and Gotham would not come running to save _him_, as _he_ had tried to save them. _His_ services were no longer required.

"I told you so," the clown whispered, barely one octave above the sound of breathing, before settling down on his own mattress. He lay there, quietly, holding his own breath, in order to listen to Wayne's. _I knew this would happen, Brucie,_ he thought. _I tried to show you... to them, you're just a freak… like me. They've cast us out. Are you happy?_

_We will rot down here together._

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"_You see Madness, as you know, is like… gravity. All it takes is a little… **push…**"_

— The Joker's last line from "The Dark Knight"

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**000 Author's Note 000**

I want to explain the title and it's reference to the story:

_Then they took Jeremiah and cast him into the well of Malchijah the king's son, which was in the court of the guardhouse; and they let Jeremiah down with ropes. Now, in the cistern there was no water but only mud, and Jeremiah sank into the mud._

—_Jeremiah 38:6_

The title of this story comes from the Biblical verse cited above. I always saw that as rather potent, the prophet who tried to save the people being lowered into a well and left to die, all by the very same people he tried to protect. As you can see it ends very powerfully, with Jeremiah down there floundering in the muck, waiting for death.

I wanted to tie the depths of Arkham with the "well"—I'm not sure if I succeeded, but I kept leaving some hints in the story above. This further ties to the image of the "well" in _Batman Begins_: "Brucie has fallen down the well." In future installments this image would hopefully have been brought out even more. If you want to see what eventually happens to Bruce, I suppose you should just look up what eventually happened to Jeremiah, and make your guesses from there. Yes, I'm in the habit of never guaranteeing happy endings for my characters, and this holds true for fanfiction as well.

As for who was the "Jeremiah" in the above tale, I hope that much is obvious. X)

Hope you liked it. Yeah, it's depressing. I did warn you all, though.


	2. Part II

_**Author's note.**_

Well, I decided to post another part of this after all, after receiving so many reviews. I really was surprised. It seemed like you guys wanted the second installment, so here it is. Granted, this isn't as prettily written as the last chapter… but I think it will do for now. My final debut until the rest of the semester blows over. Only three weeks to go! Yay!

Hat tip to the reviewer "Taluliaka," who somehow was able to guess I'd be using Lewis Carroll quotes in the future. But the ones she suggested were actually better than the originals I was going to use. So thank you! 8D

Enjoy, and let me know if you guys actually want the third part (when I'm not working on _Foundations_, of course).

**WARNING**: I also just realized that there's gonna be some **spoilers** here for stuff that will possibly show up later in _Foundations…_ this is an AU of it, after all. Hmmm. Not too much in this chapter, though, if any.

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**JEREMIAH'S WELL: Part II**

_By heaven, he echoes me,_

_As if there were some monster in his thought_

_Too hideous to be shown. _

_- William Shakespeare_

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There are monsters in the bowels and pits of Arkham Asylum, but not all of them are locked behind padded walls.

The sound of an opening door rang out like a gunshot, echoing down the hall with reverberating fury. Contained within their own private prisons—some of steel bars, some of the body, and some of the mind—all four inmates remained silent. They knew a momentous thing was about to occur, an event that they didn't want to be a part of… the three who were conscious recognized the thud of that calm, confident, assertive stride. All the other footfalls following it seemed to be drowned out by its resonant steps. It was the whisper being heard in a crowded room.

On his cot the Joker had been jolted wide-awake, his brown eyes trained on the entrance of his cell, waiting. The clown had only had a few nightmares in his life—he did not dream of things he feared, and he generally was such a terror to everyone else that he had no time for dread of his own. But this man was different. For, like the Bat Man, with Varnham he could _always_ make an exception.

Before Varnham passed his cell, the Joker took a spare moment to peer over at Wayne. His neighbor was still senseless, pale face looking ghostly in the dim lighting, with the bruises appearing as horrific, gaping holes of midnight emptiness, marring that snow-colored skin. So very _blissfully_ unaware, the clown thought. How kind of the guards to deprive _him_ of _his_ senses. It was the best day's work those idiotic twits had ever accomplished.

The next moment Varnham passed by the Joker's vision, and the jester's attention was diverted from the slumbering billionaire.

Varnham was not a tall man, not by any means. He did not look imposing—indeed, he had the appearance of a friendly fellow, the sort of man that even the most hesitant and private of individuals could confidently confide in. During his childhood he must have been the boy that everyone liked, the young man that every girl secretly wanted to marry some day, once they were through chasing after the tall, dark, and handsome "bad boys" that youth demanded they pursue.

By now middle age had tempered the psychologist's innocently naïve face—nonetheless it retained its honest appeal, its unassuming and calm hazel eyes resting behind relatively thin-rimmed glasses, below a fringe of receding sandy-blonde hair. By all means he was someone ordinary in appearance, but somehow able to convey that he was extraordinary in patience, kindness, and modesty.

Yet more proof that the world is cruel, the Joker believed.

Although the clown did not know how he knew, he still remembered that there was a certain type of wasp—a nasty little thing—that injected its eggs into the bodies of live spiders. When the eggs hatched they fed on their host, saving the vital organs for last. Gradually by degrees the spider was consumed alive, becoming sick and more decrepit, increasingly incapable of functioning on what scraps of bodily flesh and organs remained. Finally it died in agony, leaving the young wasp to gestate and burst forth from its corpse prison. Free to go and spread its own offspring throughout the world.

The funny thing was, most people were afraid of spiders. Oh, most men would say that they weren't, but the Joker knew that was a lie. After all, how many men would willingly let a spider walk across their skin? People only squish bugs they are afraid of. They kill them because in so doing they kill their fear. Yet, when told the story of the spider wasp, most people tended to shudder—perhaps, the Joker mused, this was because they realized even monsters have their own monsters.

And yes, there were monsters in Arkham. Some simply didn't look the part.

Varnham never carried keys on his person—at least, the Joker had never seen him use any. The clown had a sneaking suspicion that this was meant to be an act, that the psychologist really did have personal access to each and every area of the asylum, but that he didn't want his prisoners—or perhaps even his employees—to know this. Someone else always accompanied him to open the doors. Like royalty, he was ushered back and forth by Arkham guards. This made some sense to the Joker: after all, Arkham was practically Varnham's palace. No surprise, then, that the Prince of Arkham would now enter the cell of the Prince of Gotham.

Had _he_ been physically able to stand, Wayne would have towered over the smaller man. As it was, however, _he_ lay still on _his_ cot. Helpless.

_That's right, Brucie,_ the Joker thought, _whether you're awake doesn't matter—play the rabbit to his hawk. Don't move._

Apparently Varnham knew enough to be cautious. Perhaps the story of the guard Wayne had kicked had reached his ears. The clown didn't doubt that the tale would, eventually, if it hadn't already. Varnham seemed to know everything in his domain.

Carefully, as if Wayne was an antique that threatened to disintegrate at the slightest touch, the psychologist reached out and placed a hand on his patient's shoulder, rotating Wayne from _his_ side onto _his_ back. The vigilante's head lolled, so fluidly that for a second the Joker believed it might pop off and go rolling across the floor. Had it concerned any other person, the clown would have laughed at that thought.

But, since it was about the Batman, it wasn't funny. In the dark the Joker's muddy eyes narrowed, just as if the sun had suddenly assaulted them. In his mind pictures of violence, blood, and gore were running wild, a gruesome slideshow destined to be turned into a live-action game plan. Soon enough it would be the heads of the Arkham guards rolling down the halls like bloodstained soccer balls.

Of all his body, Varnham's hands were the gentlest. Long fingers reached toward Wayne's chin, tilting _his_ head to get a better view of the bruises. The wide inky blots littered the porcelain skin; _he_ looked like a quilt, stitched together from patches of white, gray, and black rags.

There was complete silence, except for the rustle of cloth from a fidgeting guard nearby. Glancing at the fellow, the Joker's eyes widened slightly. It was the same man who kept sedating him. Quite against the clown's will, a smile bloomed on his torn face.

"Who did this?" Varnham's voice sounded cold. Its mere echo dropped the room's temperature by ten degrees.

The guard didn't answer.

Turning on the man, the psychologist rested his hazel eyes on his employee; who, seemingly shocked by the intensity of the scrutiny, unconsciously shuffled back a few steps. Varnham's thin lips pressed tight, so firmly that he ceased to have them altogether.

"Get out," he said, calmly. His voice was always so soothingly tranquil; so cold that the Joker could have sworn he saw the man's breath. "Turn in your keys. You're done."

_NO!_ The Joker wanted to howl, his smile vanishing, and he very nearly flung himself up against the plexiglass in rage. _You can't _fire_ him! Not him! Fire one of the others!_ How could the clown have a proper revenge if that man no longer worked for Arkham? He'd have to track the fellow down, and that took _work_, damn it!

But the guard seemed relieved. He hurried backwards, and the sound of his feet scrambling away ricocheting off the halls. Varnham turned back to Wayne.

"Go get a nurse," he ordered, and without question one of his remaining subordinates followed in the dismissed man's wake.

Arkham's head doctor was quiet after that, his attention focused entirely upon his patient. Wayne didn't seem conscious: either _he_ was an extremely good actor—which the Joker knew was not entirely unlikely, seeing as _he_ had managed to masquerade as a worthless playboy for so long—or else _he_ was not faking _his_ senseless state. The clown didn't try to guess which option was likely the truth: he was fairly certain that it was the latter, seeing as the former was a bit presumptuous on the Batman's part, at least for the moment. Right now, the jester supposed, Wayne didn't know what to fear most in the asylum. _He_ would probably regard most of Arkham's staff—minus the guards, of course—to be trustworthy individuals.

_Ah, Brucie,_ the clown chided, sighing mentally. _Varnham will cure your naïveté soon enough, don't worry. You're such a blockhead… but then again that's what makes you _special_, isn't it? I'll be the first to tell you, though: you've got to be careful down here in the well, Timmy, or it'll rain and you'll drown—and nobody will save you, will they?_

Varnham was steadying Wayne's wobbly head, propping up the pillow around it, even using the corner of his sleeve to wipe smudges of blood from around the billionaire's split lips. Lifting a hand, the psychiatrist carefully tested the bruise over Wayne's left eye. It was so dark that it reminded the observing Joker of his war paint, the way he would smear the white on first—and oh, how _pale_ Wayne's face was in this dim light—and then add on the charcoal black smudges around both his brown eyes. Had he stopped his look at that, the jester would have had the appearance of a green-haired and lumpy-cheeked panda bear, or possibly a pasty albino raccoon. But he always added one more color to his kaleidoscope, the crowning masterpiece of his face, his ideals, his whole life. His smile.

As he watched the edge of Varnham's sleeve tint an increasingly deep red from the cuts on Wayne's face, and as he saw the way that the psychologist delicately lifted the bruised eyelid to reveal a bloodshot and dilated eye, the Joker was consumed even more strongly with that color. Crimson. The same color his smile had been, when it first was applied to his own face. Ever since then he'd kept the same red on his cheeks, a reminder to himself and to the world. _Smile_. You're never fully dressed without it.

But he wasn't allowed to wear his war paint inside the asylum. Just one more thing on his list of personal comforts that was denied him. How he _hated_ this place…

Thoughtfully, the clown tapped his fingers on his knees, his attention never wavering from Varnham and his neighbor, or that bloody sleeve. Such a wonderful, beautiful, entrancing color. Should he give the Batman a smile, one tinted just like it, after they were free? Once, he'd been close—so, _so_ close—to doing that very thing…

He remembered that night very well. The Joker had been having a grand old time—chasing Dent, firing missiles at police cruisers, snagging hapless helicopters in mid-flight; even watching the Bat Man's big black tank slam into the garbage truck that he'd hired to harass Dent's transport. Yet it was only when the Batman had shot straight toward him, riding some contraption that he couldn't even guess the origins of, that the clown's delight had reached impressive levels.

Lesson number one, the jester's mind had crowed: when your enemy is standing in the middle of the street, firing at you with a semi-automatic, and you have a motorcycle, _run him over._ One thing you shouldn't do is zoom around him, slam into the wreckage of his former ride, and then roll unconscious out onto the asphalt.

Not surprisingly, the Batman had failed _his_ first test. This was despite that the clown had tried his best at giving _him_ clues—_I want you to do it!—_and even eventually settled for giving _him_ the correct answer in its entirety—_Hit me!—_but oh well... It was unfair, the jester had decided, to expect the vigilante to overcome in one single night what was probably a lifetime of rules and regulations drilled into _his_ head.

That was when one of his masked goons—"Auguste," he'd chosen to title the worthless bum—had managed to crawl up to the Batman's senseless form, and found himself badly shocked when he tried to remove the mask. In that one instant the clown's mind was changed from a sense of resignation, mild discontent, and more than a little frustration, into a heaven of exalted bliss. He couldn't stop himself from running the rest of the way, barking with laughter… the Batman wasn't an _entire_ buffoon! How could _he_ be? They were too much alike, the jester and the dark knight, rulers of the court. A little tweaking, and together they could raze that court to the ground.

Before turning to his masked doppelganger, the clown had made sure to give Auguste a few kicks, though the goon still did not end up being punished as much as he deserved. The Joker had been too intent on instructing his quarry. Lunging at the prone vigilante on the ground, his knife slashing through the air, the jester had found his mind occupied with thoughts that more "civilized" people would have found more than a little disturbing. How to best cut the Bat Man's frowning mouth into a permanent grin? Make it quick—a few sharp slitting motions, easy and swift as pulling an old Band-Aid from a whimpering child's knee? Or turn it into a ceremonial marathon, a long and drawn out rite of passage, where each bloody inch, each gory _centimeter_, was accompanied by a sage saying of advice? Starting with: when your opponent is _asking_ for you to hit him, _do it_—_or stuff like _this_ will happen._

Nevertheless, the unconscious state of his pupil had brought the Joker a small second's pause. What would be the point of punishing _him_ now, if _he_ couldn't feel it? True, _he'd_ still awake eventually, and be greeted in the mirror with _his_ dashing new look, but what would be the fun of that if the jester couldn't witness _his_ horror over _his_ transformation? Still… moments like this shouldn't be wasted…

That brief pause had cost the clown dearly, though, for before he could even draw a breath he had felt the muzzle of a rifle pressed against the back of his head. _Awwwgh… _he complained, _could you please just give me a minute…_ one little second to make up my mind? He wasn't allowed to finish his plea, however, as he was flung roughly to the ground. The policeman ripped off his mask to reveal… Gordon. Damn it, the Joker chided himself, how could he have let his guard down like that? He'd had the sneaking suspicion that ol' Jimmy wasn't dead and gone—what sort of friend to the Batman doesn't wear a _bulletproof vest_ to Commissioner Loeb's funeral?—and the confirmation of his hunch distracted him from the question he'd been pondering moments earlier.

Now, in the pits of Arkham, watching Varnham and Wayne in the cell opposite his own, the Joker's mind returned to his initial query. Should the Batman wear a smile? He was still unsure of the answer. Perhaps, he decided, he should let _Wayne_ choose for _himself_… after all, if _he_ truly was going to fall from _his_ pedestal, it was only right that _he_ should be able to make important decisions like that.

The clown had just alit upon this decision when a dark-haired nurse hurriedly entered the room, gasping in surprise when she saw its occupant's state. Immediately the Joker's interest was piqued. He hadn't seen _her_ before. She was new: her pretty face, contorted in pity and horror, communicated her novice status better than her unrecognized features ever could.

"What happened?" she asked, kneeling at Wayne's side. Varnham shifted to allow her room. The psychologist's hazel eyes were dark, moody.

"The guards must have their amusements," he murmured, and somehow the soothing quality of his voice seemed to calm the nurse's trepidations. She set about hurriedly looking Wayne over, making note of the worst of the damage. Special attention was paid to the vigilante's crushed left hand.

"I do hope you will prosecute whoever did this," she said as she worked.

Varnham managed a grim smile. "Oh, don't worry. I always see to it that anyone who harms a patient physically or emotionally will receive the full penalties of the law. Arkham Asylum will always be a safe refuge for those who need help."

The Joker had to hold back a howling laugh. He had to admit—sometimes the doctor's cruel sense of humor was actually much better than his own.

Of course, the nurse did not seem to appreciate the irony of her superior's statements. Instead, rather worriedly, she said, "I really think he needs to be brought to the asylum hospital... just looking at some of these bruises, I know his ribs aren't doing too well… there's really no other option."

They were going to take _him_ away? The Joker wasn't sure whether he liked that idea. On the one hand, even the Batman was not immortal—and the one thing the clown wanted least of all was a dead or crippled rival. On the other, if they moved _him_, and started _his_ treatments while the jester was not present to witness the beginning of _his_ descent to madness… In the gloomy dark of his cell the Joker's brown eyes became opaque, glittery black diamonds, lit only by the soft glow of the tuned-down light and the vehemence from within.

He had to confess: he wanted, so very badly, to see Wayne suffer.

Not that he specifically desired to see the Batman _broken_—but in pain and under duress? The latter was perfectly acceptable, welcomed even… the former, however, made the Joker feel somewhat uneasy. In some ways the clown wanted Wayne to understand what he'd been forced to endure in this hellish pit, especially seeing as the vigilante was the man who had been most instrumental in locking the jester away. It was only fair that the Batman should know some of the Joker's torments.

But… broken? Defeated? Crushed? The clown's mind rebelled against those thoughts. Wishing those things on his other half was like wishing them on himself. Re-making the vigilante in his own image did not necessarily require snuffing out that vibrant spirit—indeed, in some ways, it would require _keeping_ the Batman's fiery temperament lit and burning—but Varnham would obviously accept nothing less than total annihilation. This, the Joker knew, was only the latest reason to hate the good doctor, but it would also probably prove quite useful. If he could rush in, just before Wayne's spirit died, and re-adjust some of the vigilante's misconceptions… with the Bat Man's mental walls having been torn down by Arkham's head psychologist, this would not altogether be an impossible task. The trick would be doing it at the right time—and then also managing to find a way out of this hellhole before an actual collapse of Wayne's will occurred.

No doubt Varnham would also be harder on Wayne than he was on the Joker. The clown was a nameless man, possessing only a title, and as an amnesiac with a terrible memory he had little to offer. This did not mean that he was immune to the doctor's trials, of course—but it did mean that he received less increments over longer periods of time. Combined with Quinzel's insistent protection, the Joker had managed relatively well. Would Quinzel protect Wayne, too?

When he had a sudden vision of his _harlequin _standing up for the Batman, some inner element of the jester huffed angrily at that thought. All he knew was that he wanted to keep Wayne and Quinzel as far apart as possible; he was not sure why. Rather than dwell on his confusion, he forced his focus back to Arkham's head and the nurse in the other cell.

"You think so?" Varnham was saying.

"Oh, most certainly," she responded. "He'll need surgery soon. It's a safe bet he's bleeding internally."

"Hmm," murmured the doctor, "that means holding off on any medication, any medicine, any… everything."

Was there a hint of regret in the doctor's voice? And what was _this?_ A slight bit of heat to Varnham's words… the doctor was angry. Inwardly, the clown chuckled darkly, and he shifted on his cot, though his eyes did not move away from Wayne and _his_ two guests. Perhaps the billionaire would be lucky, and escape Varnham's notice while recovering in the infirmary. Perhaps this meant that the Joker would be able to see the aftermath of the Batman's first treatment, after all.

With reluctance the doctor motioned to some orderlies, who under the nurse's watchful eyes started carefully loading Wayne onto a stretcher. The nurse was insistent that they be gentle, even though the clown knew there was little chance of them being otherwise when Varnham was around. It was when the good doctor left that Wayne would need to start worrying.

This nurse was a "nice girl," the jester decided, as he focused upon her. She was someone who, no doubt, had gone through medical school in order to "help people." What a wonderful doll to play with… sudden visions crept into his head, and a wistful, deceptively peaceful expression appeared on his disfigured face.

"What're _you_ doing?" Varnham asked abruptly, turning to the shadowy outline of the plexiglass; the clown realized that he'd just been caught staring.

"Me?" The Joker asked innocently, tilting his head like a demented owl, his brown eyes glowing like ocular twin moons, raising his ridged eyebrows. "_Moi?_"

Varnham's face remained passive at this egging inquiry, but the clown could nevertheless see the seething rage bubbling behind the man's glasses, even though it wasn't directed at him. Ah. Ol' Jamesy Varny-hammie was _so_ _mad_ at those _mean_ guards! Though he knew he wouldn't be around to witness it, nevertheless the Joker was still looking forward to hearing about whatever menial task that the guards would be forced to endure as punishment. Arkham's head doctor could be quite inventive when he wanted to be. This quality—combined with others—managed to garner up some respect for Varnham in the Joker's mind, and so he decided to answer the shorter man. Any other person, aside from the Bat Man, he would have only mocked with his utter silence.

"You know me, Doc. I'm just… ah… _hanging out_. In the dark. Wanna see my… _Bat Man_ impression?" The clown spread his arms wide, flapping them erratically. "_Beware_, evildoers! Big bad _Batsy_ is out to get you! _Nyah!_"

The last part was a bit over-the-top, the jester could admit, for he'd stuck out his pink tongue in a perfect imitation of a child's raspberry. Loath as he was to admit it, in these dungeons he was getting a bit rusty with his comedic routines—not that they'd been anything to write home for in the first place, of course, even if one assumed that his witnesses could still hold a pen after such a demonstration. But despite this he was well rewarded, for Varnham turned away in disgust.

"Get a new light for him," the head doctor sighed to an orderly, shaking his head.

For just a moment the Joker thought that perhaps he'd fooled the man into thinking he was _serious_—that perhaps he'd struck up a case of Napoleon Syndrome—but then Varnham glanced at him, coldly, reprovingly, almost a look of parental long-suffering, and the jester knew that the doctor was not deceived. He cackled.

"All's fair in love and treatment, doc," the clown chortled. "After all, they're one and the same, right?"

Varnham said nothing, and avoided looking at the Joker while Wayne's stretcher was carefully carried down the hall. Though the jester attempted to tilt his head and follow the doctor's face, he did not succeed. This was an empty victory, then—but he decided to count it as a victory nonetheless. Such triumphant confrontations were growing rarer these days, since Quinzel had started taking over more of his weekly therapy sessions. Oh, doubtless Varnham counted their recent encounter in his own "win" column, but the Joker didn't care. After all, one day he was going to slit Varnham's throat, not the other way around—so what did it matter what the psychologist thought right now?

The hall door shut once again, the rumbling well-sound echoing through the dimly lighted hall. In their respective cells, Slink and Wendigo were silent. As was the Joker, though the sudden quiet had an almost unbearable quality to him. He liked silence, every so often—it was wonderful to _think_ in—but this particular absence of noise had a mournful quality to it, one that he hated. An emotion he disliked immensely was welling up inside of him, and he was helpless to stop it. Loss. He'd lost something very special to him, just a few minutes ago; he'd watched none other than the Batman being carried away to the hospital wing. The room opposite looked forlorn without its occupant. When would Wayne be back?

All night long he couldn't sleep, restless with that question stirring up his mind. He paced from wall to wall, ten steps forward, ten steps back. Five, if he skipped. What little sleep he'd had before Varnham's arrival had refreshed him so well that he couldn't rest. Like the Batman, his body ran on a nocturnal schedule—and despite being holed up in Arkham, in some ways this fact continued to remain true.

In his session with Dr. Quinzel the next morning, questions about Wayne still plagued the Joker's mind. But he couldn't just come out and ask them directly—he couldn't afford to have suspicions raised. Fortunately Quinzel opened the conversation on the right vein of thought.

"What happened last night, Joker? Did you see what went on in your neighbor's cell?"

Immediately the clown knew that his quick cooperation would be seen as something dubious, and that if Varnham were watching through the room's one-way mirror—which very well could be the case—then the doctor would instantly pick up on anything out of place. If the jester wanted to learn something, therefore, he'd have to give her a hard time: that was fine with him. Leaning back in his chair and huffing like a toddler, the Joker drawled,

"I _thought_ these lil' chats were s'posed to be about _me_, Harley babe, not whatever's goin' on _next door._"

He also managed to don a vaguely offended look. Sometimes he got caught up in a role so much, he surprised even himself.

This morning Quinzel was amazingly single-minded, though; she didn't even react to his careful teasing. Somehow the Joker thought he should give her a little credit for that. As brainless as Quinzel could be, she seemed to be adapting to his best methods. Perhaps he'd try a different approach to get a rise out of her.

"Joker," the therapist prodded again, "your neighbor was badly injured last night. Didn't you see or hear anything?"

"I _saw_ and, ah, _heard_ plenty," the clown laughed, "but then… then you, uh, came into my cell and performed a striptease, and I realized I was _drrrr-eaaaa-ming_."

Ah! The sweetness of success: she'd clenched her pen just a _bit_ tighter. But that small reaction wasn't enough to satisfy him. Before she could open her mouth, therefore, he'd leaned forward, raised an eyebrow, and asked cheerfully, "And I _was_ only dreaming… right, my luverly _harlequin_?"

Quinzel inhaled sharply, as if the Joker's double whammy of a suggestive hint and an utterance of her hated school-days nickname had combined to form a punch to her gut. He savored the way her ruby-red lips puckered unconsciously into a pouting grimace. Yet the very next moment she was professional again, with the exception of a few slight differences; little hints that the clown, over time, had come to recognize as signs of her discomfort. Her eyes had taken on a sharp, cold aspect, almost mimicking Dr. Varnham's, as she stared at him frostily. She was lying to herself, he knew, pretending that he couldn't see her uneasiness—but no matter how hard she tried, she could never truly fool him. The jester held back a tortured, whining giggle.

"Joker," she said, this time with her voice sounding all-too artificially lighthearted, "your new neighbor is in the asylum hospital. You mean to tell me you slept through whatever put him there?"

"And _what _if I did?" The clown mimicked her tone, moving his body into a position that mirrored hers exactly, even to the point of pretending to grip an invisible pen and strumming his free fingers through an imaginary stack of paper. Quinzel, seeming to realize what he was doing, stopped her nervous habits, setting the pen down carefully… but then, thinking better of this—she might have seen the way his eyes lit up at the sight of it, the jester supposed—she picked the implement up again and put it in her white jacket. The papers she was holding, however, she raised slightly to read.

"Let's see… compound fractures in his hand, three broken ribs, one pierced lung," she hesitated, her eyes running down the list, "…you didn't hear any of this?"

Ha. The Joker knew all too well that was not the full extent of Wayne's injuries. What had made Quinzel pause? He frowned, but covered the expression up just as quickly. It would do no good to ask her directly.

When in doubt, he mused, use the maxim of Medieval monks: better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

When she set the pad of paper down, he jerked his head, shrugged somewhat dismissively, and said, "Yep."

Quinzel sighed. "Does that mean that you did or you didn't, Joker?"

"Yep," was all he replied once more, rocking in his chair slightly, pretending to pay her no attention. This was enough to make Quinzel bring her hand up to massage her nose, right between her eyes. In that split second, while she was distracted, the Joker leaned forward, brown eyes skimming the papers before her—and a revealing curse slipped out of his mouth when he couldn't make heads or tails of the writing. He really didn't know why he bothered—he always had a hard enough time reading anyway, let alone reading _upside down_… ah, this damned place was getting to him, affecting his planning skills. Normally he could have prided himself on at least remembering how bad he was with letters, but it seemed that his memory was only getting worse with nothing of importance to daily occupy his mind.

Use it or lose it, a small voice chimed to him. If you don't give your mind practice, you'll forget your own name.

_Shut up_, he snarled back. _I remember everything I _need_ to. Go away!_

Unfortunately Quinzel had heard his muttered curse, and she caught him looking. Flustered, as if she realized she'd been had, she gathered the papers up, clutched them close, and glared at him. With a soft groan of consternation, the clown settled back in his chair, and, grumpily, said, "If I tell you, can I go to common room today?"

Bargaining with his doctors was not something he did often. Quinzel frowned, and seemed to consider the option. He watched her, obsessively observing the gears in her head turning, and knew even before she nodded what her answer would be.

After two hours of describing the random faces of the Arkham guards, he was shoved into the common room by a couple of orderlies. Sulking, the clown headed toward his favorite lumpy chair, but was cheered when the other patients shrank out of his way. They knew their place, and he knew his. Even if nobody else did, Arkham's inhabitants understood one another. Together, one day the forgotten "loonies" would rule this town.

And now the Batman was one of them, the Joker reminded himself merrily. Soon _he'd_ be back, and the fun could begin. The clown hummed to himself as he pawed absentmindedly through the stack of daily newspapers. Though they were all the same edition, he was waiting for one of them to somehow _feel_ right. Ah—there it was. The perfect one. Snatching it up, he settled in the chair, keeping watch over the remnants of the scattered stack with half a hooded eye. Like wolves, the alpha male was allowed to preside over the kill first—and once he was gone, the rest of the pack could sift through the scraps left behind.

Before opening the newspaper, however, he purposefully flipped it upside-down. If he could train himself to recognize letters the right side up, he figured he could do the same when they were inverted. He was so focused on recognizing the symbols that he almost didn't see Dr. Crane approach.

The Scarecrow and the Jester had spoken a few times in the common room; it seemed that, due to his overwhelmingly good behavior, Crane saw the walls of his personal cell but rarely. As a former psychologist, he often functioned in his past occupation's capacity, speaking with the other inmates and helping along with their recoveries. Twice now he had overheard rumors of impending breakouts, and reported the offenders. All the currently employed doctors—some of whom were Crane's former associates and underlings—believed that he was taking a turn for the better.

As if. The Joker knew quite well that Jonathan Crane did everything for his own sake. He was a slimy little slug that was all too willing to rat on his compatriots in order to get good marks with the white-coated oppressors. Still, he supposed, Crane could be useful—few other men had such a knowledge of both the brain _and_ a particular chemical toxin's workings upon it. Someday he planned on asking Arkham's former head about such things.

For now Crane said nothing, merely stood nearby. The ex-doctor was too smart to be fooled this easily—just because the clown ignored someone didn't mean he was unaware of his presence. It would have been more tolerable for the jester if Crane had spoken up immediately, but no… he had to be silent. Gradually the Joker's fingers curled around the edges of the paper that he was attempting to decipher, until more of the news was balled up in his fists than sending information to his eyes.

"What exactly are you doing?" Crane finally asked, obviously noticing the paper's misfortune.

"None of your, uh, _business_, Straw Man," the jester responded, his voice forcibly sing-song. "Go bother _Dorothy_ for a while, OK?"

This was a double pun, and he knew it—the cafeteria lady was named "Dorothy."

"That paper's wrong side up," said Crane, quietly. The Joker rolled his eyes. The good doctor had a talent for pointing out the painfully obvious.

"What's the matter, _Johnny?_" he grumbled. "Even while an inmate in your own… ah, _nuthouse_… you can't stop playing the therapist? Look, I have… _Quinzel _for that. Ser-ree-us-_ly_, go _bug_ the cafeteria gal."

Crane was silent. Then he said, "Good things come to those who wait."

That, for once, was something that threw even the Joker for a loop. Dropping the paper slightly, so his brown eyes could see over the frayed rim, the scarred man merely uttered, "_Huh?_"

"Bruce Wayne was your neighbor, right?" Crane articulated. "Doubtless you've got some master plan to convert him to darkness or something."

The clown raised an eyebrow, as if to silently ask a question; grimly, Crane smiled.

"Don't worry, that's something even _I_ won't tell on. It wouldn't change anything, anyway. Varnham probably has some sort of strategy involving you two… he has to know of your obsession with the Batman. It goes against standard psychological procedures to place a patient in close proximity with his obsession, as that tends to retard the recovery process—and generally, Varnham follows the rules. Not this time, though. Something must be up."

It took the jester's mind a few seconds to process this information. He'd suspected that Varnham was plotting something—that man could be _trusted_ to be _devious_—and hearing a second opinion only confirmed this suspicion further. But he didn't quite care what Crane currently had to say about the matter. Leaning forward, licking his lips unconsciously, the Joker asked, "Oh, Doctor Johnny, whatever shall I do?"

He managed to keep a straight face, even though he knew Crane's tilted lips were an expression of the smaller man's confusion. For a few moments he considered _seriously_ asking the Scarecrow what sort of advice he might have, on Varnham, on Wayne, on pretty much everything… it would be nice to have another mastermind at the table, especially since his memory was so rotten from disuse. Then again—he really had no idea whose side Crane was on. Varnham's? His? _Wayne's?_ The former doctor had a way of weaseling into things and then slinking back out. He was like water, flowing to the path of least resistance. And so, until he nailed the Scarecrow's loyalties, the clown was unwilling to enter into any partnerships with him.

"I assume you're joking," Crane said, after a moment's pause. At that, both the jester's eyebrows shot up.

"Uh… I'm the _what_, again? Ah, right. The _Joke-_r," he said, rolling his title around on his tongue, which also snaked out to wet his lips. For once, Crane seemed to react to his humor: a slight, wry turn of his lips occurred.

"Just remember: all good things, to those who wait," repeated the disgraced psychologist, who proceeded to walk off toward the cafeteria counter. Eyes narrow, the clown watched him go. Crane was definitely someone to keep an eye on—he'd figure the fellow out eventually. Right now, the man was just being cryptic, trying to draw the Joker's attention; sooner rather than later he'd have to say something substantial, and then the clown could nail him whether he was lying or not. Depending on the situation, he might be quite valuable—and if he wasn't, it would take nothing more than a pen or a needle to be rid of him.

At that moment, however, all the Joker did was snort. '_All good things'? _He knew that very well, and he was prepared to wait.

He was not prepared to wait three months.

Twelve weeks of anguish. Of every day mocking him, the man in his mirror growing more and more moody and depressed, Quinzel making inane comments like, "Joker, you really look down today." _Today?_ he'd scoff—_and yesterday, and the day before that, and before that… when is Wayne coming back, again?_ And at this question, Quinzel always nodded her head, and said in what was a failed attempt at a sympathetic voice, "When he's recovered, Joker. Are you lonely?"

Lonely. Ha. He wasn't lonely. He was never lonely. Not when Slink had been there, not when Wayne had been there—for all the few hours _he_ had been, anyway… so why should he be lonely now? The mirror-man wasn't much company, admittedly, but he was some…

As the weeks continued, the clown began to question everything. Maybe this had all been a tactic of Varnham's. Maybe Wayne really wasn't the Batman after all, but a plant that the doctor had sent to mess with his mind. Did that sound like something Varnham would do? The jester had no way of knowing, though he'd never admit it. They were scientists, the both of them; every "special" treatment session Varnham tried to figure out what made the Joker tick, and the Joker tried to get Varnham _to_ tick, but so far neither of them had succeeded. By this point the clown was fairly willing to just kill the psychologist, without bothering to figure the man out; it was pointless. With the Batman there was a sense of possibility—the vigilante was simultaneously so very alike—and yet so very _unlike_—the jester, a perfect mix of the intelligible and the mysterious, enough to keep the clown fascinated for years upon years—a whole lifetime, even. But Varnham… there was something odder about that man, something that even the Joker could not place.

Perhaps it was because the doctor was too much like him—or, rather, like what he _believed_ people truly were, deep inside. A strange mix of chaos and planning, of randomness and strategy, but combined in such a way that made the psychiatrist toxic to the clown. They were alike but not alike, in a way that made them not compatible—as was the case with the Joker and Batman—but rather completely foreign, distasteful to one another. Though the Joker would fight with the Batman and attempt to win, he would never kill _him_—yet with Varnham he would just as quickly kill and hopefully forget.

He thought about telling the man this, in their next session. This was only a standard "patient talks while doctor listens" meeting, thankfully, but this time he had no intention of talking. Yet Varnham knew how to get to him, as loath as the Joker was to admit it—the doctor remained silent, and so the quiet stretched on and on… it was torture of a different color. At last, Varnham broke the soundlessness,

"Are you ready to cooperate now? Or will you insist on pouting?"

Scrunched up in his chair, the Joker shook his head. He couldn't cross his arms, unfortunately, for there were restraints on his wrists; perhaps Varnham knew his intentions to kill without being told. The doctor did not respond to his refusal. The silence lingered.

Finally, the clown realized that he couldn't take it.

"I'll talk."

Nearly wincing at the sound of his voice, how foreign it seemed, the jester glared up at his tormentor. Varnham only observed him, stoically, and responded, "Then talk. What do you want to start with?"

_Ha. I'm not breaking that easy_, the thought came to the patient, unbidden. His glare deepened, until the creases in his face looked like shadowy tracks of old scars—which, incidentally, some of them were.

"I won't," he said, and with a sigh the doctor leaned back in the chair. But the clown was not finished.

"I won't," he spoke again, "un-_less_ you first tell me when… my _neighbor_ gets back."

The Joker wasn't quite sure what to expect from the doctor—but a wry smirk appearing on Varnham's face was not it. That expression seemed wrong, somehow, on the small man's visage; it was cold and cruel, and while Varnham's appearance was always cold it was only reserved and polite.

"When your neighbor gets back," the psychologist repeated; he stapled his fingers together in what looked like a thoughtful gesture. The clown's eyes were drawn to his hands.

_This is the church, this is the steeple, open the doors, and see all the people._

At the voice's intonation, the Joker shook his head, and his mind cleared—though whether this came from his movement or from the end of the rhyme, he didn't know. Varnham continued to observe him, as if attempting to poke holes through his skull and witness the actions of the frenzied brain underneath. The clown only stared right back.

"Very well, then," the doctor said at last, and he moved to press a button on his desk. "You can go back to your room."

Not knowing what to think, the Joker was quiet as the orderlies entered and unlocked his wrists, dragging him forcefully though the door and down the halls. In the elevator his eyes roved over the smooth, unpainted metal doors, noting how the mirror-man before him was seemingly filled with confusion. Ha. The mirror-man thought he knew everything—but he really didn't, and proof of that was staring him in the face. Soon enough those doors would part, and they would enter Arkham's bowels. Then the Joker could sit in the bottom of the well, and perhaps he'd ask the mirror-man what made him look so glum.

Summarily he was shoved into his room, and the grate covering the hallway wall slammed shut with a clink. Leaping immediately to his feet like a mad rabbit, the clown made distorted faces at the orderlies as they passed, and was satisfied when they hurried even faster toward the hall. The new bulb in his room, once so bright and new, had faded to a more tolerable glow with three months' age, and so he knew that standing before the plastic mirror would not blind him. He stood, and was about to do just that, when movement from behind the plexiglass caught his attention.

His own bed was still beside the glass—with a second leap, he landed on it, and peered through the pane. Across from him was the neighboring bed, shoved up against the wall instead of by the plexiglass; and it had an occupant. Any desire for a victory dance was snuffed by the knowledge that Varnham must have known this discovery was here waiting for him. Doubtless, the psychologist was indeed plotting something, scheming up some plan… well, it was always nicer when his enemies had strategies. He was best when twisting other's ideas, and besides he needed some excitement. Not that this discovery, in and of itself, wasn't exciting enough…

Wayne was back.

It was obvious that _he_ had been asleep just moments previous; _he_ looked confused, disoriented, and bleary-eyed. The Batman's black hair was in ungainly clumps, a nearly fatal case of bed-head—cautiously _he_ stretched, wincing, and a look of suppressed pain appeared on _his_ face as _he_ gathered strength and pushed _himself_ into a seated position, taking the covers up with _him_. It was rather chilly today, the Joker supposed. He wouldn't put it past Varnham to turn the heat down simply out of spite.

Leaning closer to the glass, the clown took in his neighbor's appearance more closely. Most of the bruises had healed over, leaving slight, sickly-green blots that were barely distinguishable from the surrounding skin. The one exception to this was the patch over _his_ eye; it still had a minor amount of brown, with some indications of broken blood vessels lacing the area, though the sapphire orb underneath was no longer bloodshot. It must have still hurt _him_, though—Wayne lifted a hand to carefully soothe the irritated injury, and froze in bewilderment when _he_ discovered that said hand was covered by a cast. Three months, the clown knew, was not enough time for crushed bones to heal. Wayne didn't seem entirely self-aware—_he _must not be a morning person. Gradually, the vigilante seemed to remember that the cast was meant to be there, and _he_ shook _his_ head, as if to clear it.

Overall, though, _he _seemed much improved—especially considering _his_ previous condition. This made it obvious that Varnham hadn't started on _him_ yet. The clown felt a howl of triumph ready to work its way up his throat, but he clamped his lips shut. After all, this was Wayne's first day out of the hospital, and it wasn't very hospitable to startle the billionaire so soon after such a big move. Wayne was troubled enough: exhaustion was lingering on _his_ face, coupled with disguised flinches and grimaces of pain. _He_ also looked to be slightly thinner than before, oddly empty, emotionally and physically. Healing had taken a toll upon _him_.

Wayne let out a sigh, followed by a groan, covering _his_ face with _his_ hands. The lights seemed to be the source of _his _distress. Thinking of the asylum's artificial daylight, however, reminded the Joker that his own light had been replaced. There was nothing but a pane of clear plexiglass between him and the Batman now; no swath of darkness for the clown to hide in. Which was fine with him—he'd hidden long enough, he thought with a chuckle. And, hearing this sound, Wayne looked up.

For a moment they just stared at each other. Brown eyes on blue, mud and water, gritty paper bags and a clear noontide sky… inwardly, the Joker was waiting, _willing_ for the surprise to show on _his_ face, yearning to see the horror and fear wash over its pale visage. Waiting for the mask to slip, the realization that _he_ had indeed fallen deep down into the pit, this time, and had seen where monsters lie.

But instead, all the Joker was greeted with was confusion. As if Wayne recognized him, yet still didn't… Ah. His war paint. Without his trademark, he probably seemed so _ordinary_—nevertheless, the Batman still knew him well enough to perceive _something_ familiar even on his naked visage. How wonderful of Wayne not to forget him. They were too alike, the both of them, for the vigilante to forget _his_ darker half, even if _he_ didn't quite recognize the jester at the moment.

The very thought of their obvious similarity meant that a growing smile spread over the clown's cheeks. And with that, face paint or no face paint, there was a sudden flicker of understanding in the sea-blue eyes.

"Hello, Brucie."

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_The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed. _

_- Carl Jung_

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**000 Author's Note 000**

There you go. You can imagine Bruce's reaction for yourselves, can't you?

There's a line in here that's paraphrased from "You're never fully dressed without a smile" – a song from _Annie_, the movie about the redheaded orphan and "Daddy Warbucks." I like the 1980s version best. It's so cute… and available on youtube.

I'm in the habit of thanking my reviewers, and that hasn't changed: many thanks to mm, Ems, andaere, Vanafindiel, Angel Dumott Schunard, Taluliaka, CountryPixie, batfan, Thedarkknight17, Calathiel of Mirkwood, Kyuubikitsune9, Misericorde, Shmellington, vampassassin, Almost Funny (twice :D), & wolfbane17. I'm surprised you could read this all; it was so looooong. ;)


	3. Part III

_**Author's note.**_

Here we go: part 3, along with the Lewis Carroll quotes that the reviewer "Taluliaka" suggested.

I would very much like to warn readers that the Joker's mind is twisted, and it is exceptionally difficult to tell what is truth and what is not, where he is right and where he is wrong. Not everything he says ought to be believed; what makes sense to him, and indeed what in his eyes can somehow "seem" to make sense, is not necessarily the picture of reality. As such, this was exhausting to write: in many cases I actually had to "reverse" what I believe to get his voice to shine through (although not _all_ the time, scarily enough O_o). After writing this I worried somewhat about the results—hence my _strong caution_. Think of him like a puzzle to be figured out.

Slight notice for language below.

**WARNING**: I also have realized that there's gonna be some **spoilers** for stuff that will possibly show up later in _Foundations…_ this is an AU of it, after all.

I also would like to remind everyone that this story is very dark, and will probably get darker, although (at least for now) I am keeping it rated "T." If anyone thinks that it should be raised to an "M," either now or in the future, let me know.

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**JEREMIAH'S WELL: Part III**

"_But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked._

"_Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."_

—Lewis Carroll

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"Hello, Brucie."

The name that mere months ago would have sounded so foreign on the Joker's tongue was now as smooth as melted butter on a polished surface, slipping out of his disfigured mouth with such ease that the clown would have marveled—that is, if his attention could have wavered in any way from the vigilante in front of him. As it was, he was powerless to do anything but focus on his equal.

"_Shit."_

This was Wayne's sole response. It seemed to encase _his_ feelings about the situation in a nutshell.

No laugh came from the clown—not at such an important, momentous occasion. He'd caught the Batman in his headlights, and it was obvious that the billionaire knew this as well. The sapphire eyes were wide, focused entirely on the jester, the exhausted form rigid with tension and shock, frozen. _He_ didn't seem to realize how gratifying this reaction was to _his_ companion. Was it even possible? The _Batman_ could be _afraid_? Of a mere defrocked clown,no less? Beaming like a child who had just been praised for a job well done, the Joker asked,

"_Miss_ me?"

Silence was the billionaire's only reply. Wayne continued to stare.

For a few moments this continued, until the clown began to feel something welling up in his chest. No, _no_—he couldn't, he didn't _dare_… but it began to burn, turning as fiery as a red-hot iron, spearing his heart… at last he could hold the flames back no longer. The sensation was coughed up in the form of a barking laugh, half-formed words spilling out,

"_Ah_-ha! _Batsy!_ Just­—_HA!_—like _olllldd times…_"

The jester rocked back and forth on his heels, merriment consuming him so entirely that he didn't even flick an eyebrow when he lurched forward a bit too far, briefly jamming his nose up against the barrier separating their rooms. At the slamming sound of skin against glass, Wayne flinched—then, some realization seemed to dawn on _him_. A slight amount of _his_ tension was released, enough for _him_ to take a deep breath, although _his_ free hand did not stop clenching at _his_ knee.

Now, why _that_ reaction? Hadn't Wayne known about the plexiglass? Apparently not—it was rather clean and see-through… Had _he_ perhaps thought that they'd been together in the _same_ cell? The Joker had to stifle another laugh, though he could not stop himself from rocking back and forth like an agitated chimpanzee. If only, if _only_…

But the understanding that there was a barrier between _him_ and the clown seemed to have given Wayne enough strength to speak. _He_ still stared in shock, almost as if _he _was suspicious that the plexiglass was an illusion conjured up by _his_ desperate mind, yet when _his_ mouth worked _his_ cold words were full of confidence.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"_Me?_" the Joker stopped rocking. "Why… I _live_ here!"

"Cut the crap, Joker," Wayne snarled, but then as quickly as it had come _his_ strength seemed to evaporate. "This… you… I… no. No. Not possible."

The clown tilted his head, bugging out his eyes in mock sympathy; his words were slow and light, speaking to a confused child. "_Uh_… did those guards _smush_ my Batsy's brain? Just what _are_ we talking about, _hmmn?_"

Wayne closed _his _blue eyes. "You're not… _real_. You can't be."

Of all the various scenarios that had played through the Joker's mind, this was one that was completely unexpected. Perhaps his ears hadn't heard ol' Brucie correctly—then again, maybe they had. Briefly the jester's thoughts turned to the last time that the Batman had surprised him so utterly, when the wind was searing his body as he _laughed_ and _laughed_… but no, it wasn't the time for that. He could reminisce later. Instead, forcing his attention back to the man on the other side of the glass, the clown drew his eyebrows together and asked,

"_Pardon?"_

But Wayne only shook _his_ head, slowly, as if in a daze. _His_ eyes remained shut, though now they squeezed together—almost a sign of pain. "The doctors were right. I _am_ crazy."

Something bubbled up in the back of the Joker's skull, and it took all of the clown's self-control not to fling himself up against the glass with a howl of rage. Anger seethed through him at that comment, writhing and wiggling in his fingers, his toes, making them curl tightly into little five-digit bombs, ready to clutch and squeeze the life out of some hapless creature. How dare_ he?_ _How_ _dare_ he, _the lying little son of a…_ Batman was not a fool, not when it concerned this, and _he_ had absolutely no right to be saying such nonsense. The jester and the dark knight were the sanest people in the world—surely Wayne had to understand that! Yet somehow it was better, in the Batman's mind, to be seeing things rather than seeing _his_ other half? How was that for greeting an old friend?

What ultimately stopped the clown from tearing open his mattress with his bare fingernails, though, was the shaking movement of the vigilante's head; a slow, liquid motion, forced and unconscious, a sure signal of disbelief. The Batman obviously didn't want to believe that _his_ own words were true—and in reality _he_ really didn't even believe them _himself_. Why the billionaire had spoken them nonetheless, the clown wasn't sure: but the knowledge that they were lies even to his companion managed to calm the clown somewhat. Enough, anyway, for his vocal chords to speak normally when he found himself babbling,

"_Well_, you've cer_rrr_-tain-_ly_ come to the right place, then. I myself recommend the _lobotomy_."

At his statement the blue eyes snapped open, gazing directly ahead, but unseeing. To the Joker it felt as if he was being overlooked, as if the vigilante was staring straight _through_ his body to the padded cell wall behind him. He began to fidget once again; with his jerky movements, the eyes came back into focus, and Wayne stared at him.

"You really are here," _he _said, after a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which the jester had watched, grossly fascinated, as the thoughts swirled chaotically in the vigilante's mind. He wanted to reach in and pull them out, one at a time…

"No duuuuhhhhhhhh_hhh_," the clown drawled, drawing out the word for as long as his lungs held air. Which, considering that the wonderful surprise in front of him had caused his breathing to quicken into short, excited bursts, was not as long as he would have liked.

"But…" Wayne began, a strange sort of wavering desperation in _his _voice, but then—to the jester's chagrin and eternal fascination—the billionaire stopped. _His_ face fell into a mask of rigid impassiveness. "So I guess you know who I am, then."

"Do I ever!" the Joker responded, perhaps a bit too soon, a bit too eagerly. "I read it in the newspaper… ah, and at _first_ I must say I felt like tearing your head off, _Wayne_-_boy_. But then… well, I just had to _admire_… the way you _tricked_ us all. Pulled off quite an act, _Brucie my Bat_, not even _I_ was suspecting the truth… I must admit you've given me a good long laugh or two. There was a time when I didn't, uh, _want_ to know who was behind the mask. But… well…"

He paused to lick his lips, brown eyes afire with jovial madness, an obsession so deep that it penetrated even the fundamental element that made him a person; it warped his humanity, his very flesh and blood and soul, into something unspeakably hideous. Leaning forward, he pressed the palms of his hands so strongly up against the plexiglass that it hurt, and his squished skin became a bloodless white. "I got a consolation prize, _Brucie_, in exchange for knowing the truth…" lips that were a mockery of a smile twisted into the sort of expression that is found only in childhood nightmares. "I got _you_."

Even through _his_ self-imposed mask, Wayne looked shaken.

"You're insane," the vigilante said. Somehow the billionaire's voice not only retained some level of confidence, but it had actually lowered itself into a near-growl, a throaty sound that sounded like a mother wolf warning off a predator. "Stark raving mad…"

Ah, came the voice in the back of the clown's head. The _Bat _is out to play…

That statement alone was all that stopped the Joker from engaging in a frustrated tirade, a long lecture to his pupil about how it wasn't nice to call names, especially ones that were so hurtful and so _wrong_—the clown wanted to scream at his companion, remind _him _of what _he'd _been told in Gordon's interrogation room: don't act like _them,_ Brucie, just don't. No matter how much you want it, you'll never be what _they_ call "normal"… please don't act this way, it's childish.

Instead of saying these things, a sardonic smile layered itself over his mouth, the twisted shreds curling in mocking disgust. "Takes one to _know_ one, Brucie. If I'm mad, then what does that make _you_, oh darling neighbor mine? _Hmmmn?_"

"I said you're crazy," the Batman fairly snarled, and something dark swirled in his sea-colored eyes. "I never said I wasn't."

_Back to that again?_ the clown mouthed silently to himself, mulling over the exasperating words, before speaking aloud, "Come, _come_, Bruce-boy, you're not mad until you, uh, _say_ that you are."

Somehow his logic did not seem to affect the vigilante. Those brilliant blue eyes flickered, wavering like timid candle lights ready to burst into hellish infernos, but then the eyelids drooped wearily like snuffers suffocating the flames. _His_ free hand was brought up to rub at them, a low groan escaping through parched lips. The vigilante's tense shoulders seemed to sag, not unlike a sack full of potatoes (or, in the Joker's opinion, a garbage bag containing a macabre body); the Joker realized then that what little energy Wayne had gained from _his_ nap was gone, the shock of their meeting having sapped it much quicker than a strenuous exercise ever could have.

"Tired?" the jester asked, his nasally voice somehow transformed into a soothing croon. Without realizing it, the billionaire nodded _his_ head in drained agreement; then _he_ seemed to recognize what _he_ had done, and _his_ eyes snapped open to reveal a fierce glare. The Joker would have laughed—chuckled, at least—at how forgetful Wayne's exhaustion had made _him_, but behind the Batman's stern gaze was a layer of fatigue that sobered the clown. Someone else might not have picked up on such a hidden indication, but the Joker was none other than the Batman's equal: when he saw just the faintest clue of a concealed emotion, he could masterfully coax the truth from those blue pools so effortlessly that it made him want to giggle at the sheer idiocy of his companion. Did the Bat Man honestly think that _he_ could hide something from him for long?

Before Wayne could respond with some other insult, without warning the lights around the two of them dimmed. Arkham's artificial "night" had begun; the vigilante was obviously too weary to be properly surprised.

"I'm going to sleep," _he_ said, and there was a shuffle of sheets in the dark. Vaguely, his eyes not having adjusted to the blackness, the Joker could see that the billionaire was nearly collapsed back into the bedspread. Then, in a more commanding tone, the Batman demanded, "You'd better be quiet, Joker."

"As a _mouse_," replied the jester. "If you hear any squeaking or, _ah_, scratching, that'd be me."

"No squeaking," came a murmur from his companion. "This damned well is bad enough without the bats, too…"

"Oh, Brucie, Arkham has only _one_ Bat," Joker laughed, completely missing his neighbor's semi-conscious confession due to his mind's attachment to a pun. "Plenty of bat_-ty_ folks, though."

"Joker," said the voice in the other cell. "Shut up."

The clown considered snarking back, saying something outrageous and perhaps even abusive—but he doubted that the Batman was awake enough to appreciate it, so he allowed the silence to swell between them. Across from him, little more than ten feet, he could hear the breathing of his companion; the shallow breaths soon gave way to a much deeper sound, as consciousness was watered down and finally submerged entirely in sleep. Some part of the jester was envious—normally the Arkham inmates could not go to sleep that easily, and so Wayne's exhaustion was probably a gift at the moment rather than a curse. Briefly the Joker considered banging a fist against the plexiglass, to wake Wayne just out of spite. The vigilante obviously needed a lesson in manners if _he_ thought that _he_ could boss the jester around. Still… it was probably better to let the vigilante sleep, regain _his_ strength.

Surely _he_ would need it before long.

A whining giggle threatened to worm its way up his throat, and the jester clapped a hand over his twisted lips to keep it in. He lay there in the dark, taking breaths sparingly so he could listen to his neighbor's, tracing his sly fingers over the grisly bumps on the corners of his mouth. For once his tongue was still, though; his hands alone moved. In the dark he could pretend he was applying paint to his face, regaining his war regalia to resume his battle against the world. And yet… it wasn't _paint _that he was dreaming of, but something else. Blood. Bat blood, if possible… surely, with his recovery, Wayne had some to spare…

There would be plenty of time for war-making later, though. Now it was just him and the darkness, the only thing warding off impending insanity being his whirling thoughts. There were monsters down here, in the pit, hiding in the shadows… they were ready to convince him that he was something he wasn't, that perhaps insanity was a thing to be considered, and that perhaps he himself was already lost. It was hard to keep hope alive when everyone in the world was crazy except oneself.

Sometimes even he believed himself to be mad.

Who is to tell what is madness and what is sanity? By what standard are men judged crazy? If one man believes quite the opposite of everyone else, can he be declared wrong simply by that fact alone? Whole societies, from Nazi Germany to Soviet Russia, once believed things that most people in the United States would declare insane—and yet within their boundaries, it was the USA's philosophies that had been regarded as loony. When they collapsed it was the winner that got to dictate right and wrong, truth and falsity. Had Soviet Russia won the cold war, then things like democracy and capitalism and freedom would be designated enemies of common sense, not vice versa. If there is no ultimate standard with which to compare, who is to say that anything is right?

The Joker believed that this was a valid question.

But no… Most people—"normal" people, as much as it sickened him to title them that—chose to cover their eyes, plug their ears, bite their tongues. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Morality was real, they screamed! Real! It had to be! If we don't have morals, we'll kill Jews like Hitler; peasants like Stalin; women, children, and innocents like tyrants from time immemorial. The screams of the injured and dying will haunt the streets. Blood will run upon the ground and cry up to Heaven just like Abel's lifeblood revealed Cain's treachery: _Murder, Murder!_

To which the clown responded, _So?_

He believed in free speech, in free love, and in free violence. If you want to say that you'd like to kill and rape your neighbor, then say it and do it. If your neighbor has the ability to stop you, then good for him and bad for you. Survival of the fittest, baby—good enough for the animals, but not for people? Aren't people animals too?

That was the difference between him and all others. Everyone else knew the great question (do morals exist in reality, and if they don't then why follow them?), but they chose to avoid it at all costs. Some conjured up images of the divine, handing down laws of morality to a hopelessly lost human race; others chose to rely on social upbringings, inheritances of the past, making flowery statements about shared humanity and goodness in human hearts. Either way, those same hearts daily committed atrocities large and small upon others of the same breed.

Even those who recognized the Truth for what it was—that there _is_ no truth, as self-contradictory as that statement sounded—were unwilling to do anything about it. The clown could remember communing with others who understood reality, just as he did; but these people all turned out to be hypocrites and liars, decrying the government with its laws and order, and then calling 911 when the mob broke into their homes. He alone was the one who stood up for reality.

This, then, was the Joker's purpose. He didn't know if there was a God, but he knew for certain that there was a devil. Well, God had had His chance; He'd sent a Messiah, and what good had that done? Within living memory Pol Pot had killed 3 million, Hitler 17 million, Stalin 30 million, and Mao 60 million. Certainly these men hadn't suffered for their "crimes"; Hitler died in a manner of his own choosing, Pol Pot under house arrest, Stalin of old age in his own bed. What good had messages of peace and love done? Didn't people understand that God Himself was a great jokester, that the universe was constructed so that the divine could have a good long laugh at creation's expense?

It was time for the devil's own messenger to take his turn. The Joker had been unleashed to do as he willed, to laugh in the faces of those who believed in truth and goodness and innocence. God's Son brought salvation—the devil's son brought damnation. He was the darkness in the human heart, the monster within unleashed, the murderous impulse personified. He had every intention of driving humanity to its knees, opening their eyes, even if he had to cut their eyelids off to make them see the truth. When all was done and the sun was cast so far away that night would never end, then there would be joy at last—people would laugh and laugh, a mocking chorus rising up to the heavens. At last they would get the joke.

And it was all thanks to the Batman.

The Joker was not a fool. He knew he was smart, yes, far more intelligent than the rest of humanity, but he also knew that he was not unique. He followed on the heels of greater men. This was perfectly acceptable to with him. "There's nothing new under the sun," King Solomon had complained—and the jester, for his part, concurred. So he tagged along, trailing like a little puppy behind the footsteps of men with more original imaginations and talents, content in his role—because, deep down, he knew one thing.

He took what they had to offer, and made it better.

It wasn't him who had invented bombs, or gasoline, or gunpowder, rockets, and AK47s. Nor did he invent knives, potato peelers, and greasepaint. But he worked best with the ideas of others, twisting their little plans into a complete mockery of what initially they had been intended. Take someone's little plan and _turn it in upon itself_… Harvey Dent had wanted to impersonate the Batman in order to capture the Joker—so the clown made sure that Dent was burned half to hell and made into a fellow monster. The mob wanted him to kill the Batman and get their money back—so he burned their money to ashes and had them cut into tiny pieces. The plans that he came up with all on his own—namely, planting bombs on the ferries—had an annoying tendency to backfire if he wasn't extra careful. In many ways he thought this was fitting. He wasn't so much a man as an ideal, working through the deeds of other men. Better to be a force of Nature herself than a singular object under Nature's laws.

_That_ was what the Batman had taught him. There had been a time—he remembered it only vaguely—when he hadn't known of the Batman, and his life had been useless. The Joker had not been _the Joker_, not back then. His names had varied with the days of the week, like leaves on the wind, there one moment and gone the next. He'd changed them like he'd changed his clothes… no coincidence, therefore, that when the Bat had appeared on Gotham's scene, the Joker's outfit had begun to take on a permanent shape. A clown had always been hiding in the back of his mind. Only the caped crusader had brought it forward. It was certainly appropriate for him: he loved to laugh at the terrified faces of his fellow criminals when he had them read aloud the papers, telling what the vigilante had done the previous night. What could laugh better than a clown? Who could tell jokes better than a clown? In a fit of irony he'd donned his first face-full of paint. The Joker was born in the shadow of a Dark Knight.

There was a connection between them. Though he didn't know what it was, nor even how he knew of it, the Joker was nonetheless more certain of his link with the Bat Man than he was even of his own existence. His life had been worthless before the vigilante appeared—with the Batman's arrival, all fell into place. In a very real way the Joker was nothing without his equal, his partner, his mirror, his brother. They were so close as to be nearly twins, sharing the same womb: a womb that, if the clown had his way, would burst forth to yield the two the worst disasters in human history.

Who between them was the master and who the student? It was a question that had no true answer—the kind of question that he had to admire, somewhat. As much as he liked getting answers, the Joker understood that not everything was decipherable. In his mind, he simply accepted that even the witless and naïve could teach the strong. The Batman didn't understand, not yet. _He_ didn't realize _his_ importance the way that the Joker did. _He _didn't comprehend what _he'd_ done. Didn't know how much the Joker owed _him_.

The Batman had _saved_ him. Saved. Him.

From what exactly, the Joker didn't know—from tedium, from the rest of humanity, even from himself… it didn't matter, not really. All that the Joker knew was that he owed the Batman something. No, not just "something"… he owed the vigilante _everything_. Without _him_, there would be no coming revolution, no grease-painted antichrist to haunt the city of the damned. It was only proper that the debt be repaid; it was only right that the Batman should have a large hand in the future destruction, coming upon the terrified citizenry of the city like a pale shadow of death, all four horsemen of the apocalypse combined into one man. How _he_ currently felt about _his _future role didn't matter—the jester would make _him_ see reason soon enough.

After watching _him_ suffer a bit first, of course. The Bat surely couldn't think that _he_ could lock _his_ equal up and not expect punishment. Granted, it was _his_ purpose in life to serve the "greater good" (whatever the hell _that_ meant), and so the Joker completely understood why _he'd_ left him dangling at the Pruitt Building… but still, fair was fair, and this meant that the vigilante ought to get a taste of the clown's medicine. All the same the Joker knew he'd end up forgiving his equal before long—so he might as well enjoy his own anger, while it lasted.

Varnham was going to help him with this. Varnham's treatment of the Batman would satisfy not only himself, but also the watching clown. And then when the Bat was broken—only then—would the Joker find himself angry at the psychologist. Perhaps it would be Wayne who would slit the psychologist's throat—in some ways that was better than even the Joker doing it himself.

Every teacher hopes to be surpassed by his student. And if the Joker had his way, he would create such a apprentice, such a future master of glorious death and suffering, that the world would forget every other monster since time immemorial and remember only _him_. No better legacy could the clown think of, no better heritage could he bequeath to his fellow man, than the corruption of Gotham's lost knight.

In the darkness, the jester's head was bowed, his worn eyes shut in sleep; yet his dreams ran wild over the earth, plotting out the beginning of a long and anguished end. Over in the neighboring cell the slumbering Wayne shifted slightly, as if _he _had somehow heard a disturbing giggle shatter the silence. Then _he _lay still.

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"_How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice._

"_You must be," said the Cat. "Or you wouldn't have come here." _

—Lewis Carroll

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**000 Author's Note 000**

Ha ha. The quotes are practically my personal commentary.

Yes, yes, this one is short. It's about half as long as the previous two chapters (and it was actually meant to be much longer…). But you got it on time… barely. And I also thought that perhaps 9,000 words in one swoop was too long anyway. Hopefully I'll have the next part up sooner than this one was. Man, was this EXHAUSTING to write, though… (falls down dead). Ugh. The Joker is one mean madre.

There's a quote in here from the Batman cartoons. In the clip, Batman bursts into Harley Quinn's room, saying, "Quinn, I need help!" To which she responds, "Then you've come to the right place… I recommend the lobotomy." It was so priceless, I had to put it in here. :)

Having had the chance to re-watch the movie, did anyone catch my goof last time? I mentioned in the previous part that at the end of the chase scene, Batman was unconscious. I thought that statement was accurate—but then I watched the movie again, and what'dya know: that's not exactly true. Batman was just stunned. In fact, when the Joker dives at him with the knife (just before Gordon jams the rifle onto his skull), Batman leans his head up and raises his arms, like he's trying to shove Joker off but just can't quite manage it (it's easier to see if you watch the IMAX version). SO… we'll just pretend that the Batman was unconscious anyway… ^_^

Wow so many reviews… I would like to thank everyone:

Endgame65, neo_savvy (twice!), XxJagzxX, Angel Dumott Schunard (twice! :O), Calathiel of Mirkwood, ., Harpyquin, andaere, SaJi, The Dramatic Sneeze (or Rednex ;)), Haladflire65, OutcastToReality, Terin, QueenCaroline, xambivalencex, xKillthelights, Computerfreak101, nlech16, azure-fire702, magictrick, outcastspice, ber1719 (twice! XD), nak321, I Spaz With Pizzazz, Kel, Rezuri, Merklin, batman-no1 (twice! :D), sugarhype, & Kris09.

Y'all are what made me post again. Thank you! ;)


	4. Part IV

_**Author's note: 14 May 2010.**_

I don't own Batman. DC Comics does.

Sorry for the long wait. I've been having particular trouble with this chapter and the next. Not everything in this chapter is perfect (then again no fiction or fanfiction ever really is), but I figured I'd been worrying about it long enough and it was time to just post the darn thing and move on to writing the next chapter of _Foundations_. It helped that the reviews for this fic reached 100—after that, I decided it was only fair to post and to heck with my reservations. I'm still nervous about what happens next chapter, but it's also no fun if I'm not pushing myself in some way.

This story is very dark, and will probably get darker, although (at least for now) I am keeping it rated "T." If anyone thinks that it should be raised to an "M," either now or in the future, let me know.

**ONE FINAL WARNING: **I would very much like to warn readers that the Joker's mind is twisted, and it is exceptionally difficult to tell what is true and what is not, where he is right and where he is wrong. Not everything he says ought to be believed; what makes sense to him, and indeed what in his eyes can somehow "seem" to make sense, is not necessarily the picture of reality. _Just because he says it doesn't make it true!_ This story is very much supposed to contain a "higher morality" that is in play, even though the Joker doesn't see it. Think of the Joker like a puzzle to be figured out.

Also one final warning for LOTS of cursing in this story: unlike _Foundations,_ I've decided that I'm not gonna bother "bleeping" bad words out either here or in the future. If you're old enough to properly read "T-rated" stories, you shouldn't have much of a problem.

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**JEREMIAH'S WELL: Part IV**

_It is better to debate a question without settling it than to settle a question without debating it._

— Joseph Joubert

.

.

.

His own giggles woke him.

Even the sight of the bland white ceiling couldn't stop his merriment. He had no idea what made him so happy, but it was a nice change from the doldrums of the past few months. This was an even better feeling than the time he'd convinced one of the new guards to bite his own thumb off.

Still giggling, the Joker rolled over on his side, the padding in his cot making no noise. Sometimes he missed the creaking of rusty mattress springs, he thought lazily, as his body trembled under the vibrations of his quiet mirth. Then he glanced over into the other room, and froze.

All at once the jester understood why he felt so fresh and exuberant, for despite his small lapse in memory, the moment he saw his neighbor everything came rushing back. Propping his scarred cheek up with one hand, the clown regarded his new companion—who, being already awake, was likewise studying him. Silence reigned, neither of them knowing what to say.

Wayne's hair was still tangled with bed-head, as if _he_ couldn't be bothered to straighten it in the mirror. In the bright light of Arkham's "morning," the vigilante looked somewhat better. More rested. _He_ was not quite so pale, and the bruises were even more faded. Having more time to scrutinize Wayne's form, the Joker realized that most of the contusions on the vigilante's skin were not actually in the same areas as before. The old bruises must have healed; what marks the clown could see were new. He wouldn't put it past the Arkham guards to rough Wayne up a little more, whether the man was in the asylum hospital or not—though, by the fading in the discolorations, the clown estimated that Wayne hadn't received a good thrashing in at least a week.

The darkest bruises, however, were on Wayne's wrists. Having visited the asylum hospital himself once or twice, the clown knew that even the most padded restraints couldn't stop bruising if the patient chose to struggle hard enough. And judging by how wide and deep the discolored patches were, Wayne must have been very uncooperative indeed.

Another giggle caught in the Joker's throat, and soon enough he was shaking again with silent hilarity. The image of Wayne strapped to a bed, snarling at nurses and doctors, was simply too much. The jester knew that if the billionaire was anything like himself—which, of course, the Batman _was_—then even the restraints wouldn't have made the hospital staff comfortable around _him_. They would have hopped about _him_ like skittish antelope eying a lion.

Soon enough the clown's renewed giggles became audible. Wayne's expression, formerly a mix of mistrust and caution, changed to one of disgust. It was as if _he'd_ never seen someone wake up laughing before. Then again, the Batman was so serious all the time, _he_ probably hadn't. Oh, so many good things in life, never witnessed, never experienced... the poor thing.

"Good _morning_, sweetheart," the Joker chirruped, finally breaking their staring contest, unable to resist adding, "_Sleep _well?"

Wayne's blue eyes narrowed further. _He_ leaned back on _his_ bed, resting _his_ shoulders against the padding on the wall. The distance of eight feet between _his_ own cot and the jester's must not have been enough for _him_; _he_ looked like _he_ wanted to disappear, to press _himself_ into the padding and slip into the next cell over. The thought of Wayne doing so—as if _he_ was a demented octopus working its way through the cracks in a fisherman's net—served to increase the jester's sniggering.

It was only when he heard the Batman murmur, "_he'll bust a gut_," that the clown gave in fully to uproarious laugher. Even the new look of open aversion on the billionaire's face couldn't make him stop.

"No wonder you're in the asylum," Wayne commented, half to _himself_, voice biting and sharp. "Even if you hadn't forced me to put you in here, I'm sure someone would have seen you laughing and decided you were crazy on the spot."

The Joker chose to ignore the underlying bitterness in the vigilante's statement, though he did quiet down somewhat. Best not to aggravate the other man _too_ much. As much fun as it would be to simply continue in his glee, the clown knew that time was short and shouldn't be wasted. What better way to begin his and Bat's new relationship by teaching, first thing in the morning?

"Heyy_yyyyy_, Brucie," he chucked, "This _isn't_ an asylum! Be _imaginative_—it's a _school_. Boot camp for loons."

"_You_ would think something like that, wouldn't you?" muttered the other man, and because it was so low the Joker decided to disregard the utterance. He didn't have time to quibble with every little misconception the billionaire had: at any moment the guards would soon come either for Wayne or for him. (Of course he didn't dare hope that the Arkham staff would come for both of them, but one could fantasize, right?)

In any case, the possibility that Varnham might have already spoken with Wayne and earned _his_ trust was too painful for the clown to bear. The Joker would have to act quickly and give Wayne some sage advice, even though he knew that the Bat Man would likely be too filled with distrust to accept anything from him. For now, at least. When the Joker's predictions eventually came to pass, Wayne would be forced to re-evaluate _his_ distaste for the clown.

This way, when the Joker's warnings did indeed prove true, he would not only have the lovely chance to once again tell Wayne 'I told you so,' but also could begin to prove himself as an honest source of information. And if Wayne could trust his advice, it was only a step further for Wayne to start trusting the Joker himself, and from there for the Batman to start adapting _his_ own beliefs accordingly...

Clearing his throat, the Joker sat upright on his cot, his general manner of self-importance enough to bring a frown to Wayne's face. Careful to keep his manner dignified, but not overly so—less Batman should think that the clown was mocking _him_—the jester said,

"Listen, I have just a few _quick_ lil' things to tell ya, before the day starts. Take some _advice_ from an old Arkham _veteran_." He winked, drinking in the sight of Wayne's obvious incredulity, and began to recite: "Lesson number one—"

"What the _hell_ are you—"

"—_Lesson number one_," repeated the clown, louder, but otherwise giving no hint that he knew he had almost been interrupted, "_Don't_ trust Varnham. He doesn't have your best _interest_ in mind, doncha know."

"Oh?" The Batman's voice was cold, yet taking on a slightly mocking tone that the Joker had never heard from _him_ before. The clown filed this information away to ponder later, and focused on Wayne's actions in the here-and-now, as the vigilante straightened _his_ spine, sitting tall on _his_ bed. This served to increase _his_ overall size—while _he _wasn't taller than the Joker, and while _he_ had lost some of his muscle in the hospital, _he_ nevertheless was still quite broad and solid. The Joker suppressed a laugh over the idea that such intimidation tactics could work on him. "And I suppose _you_ do?"

At the question, a smile bloomed on the jester's face. "Of _course_."

This statement brought a derisive snort from his companion. That wouldn't do, the Joker thought—not when he was being so devastatingly honest. Wagging a finger at Wayne, the clown clucked,

"Now, _now_, Batsy, let's not let _old grudges_ cloud our heads, eh? Look back—you'll see I've _always_ had your best interests in heart. Why, I even let you toss me off the Pruitt Building. Doesn't _that_ count for something?"

The Bat Man gave him a look he couldn't decipher—disbelief? _His_ next statement was nonsensical, even to one such as the jester.

"You laughed."

The Joker cocked his head, intrigued by this newfound puzzle. "S'cuse me?"

"You _laughed_," Wayne said again, as if stressing the word could give it more meaning. Fortunately, _he_ elaborated this time, even adding a brief frown to _his_ forehead for good measure. "When you fell off the Pruitt Building. You were laughing."

"There you _go_, see," said the defrocked clown, holding up his hands in an obvious, _told you so,_ manner. Next to Wayne's upright posture, his own slouch made him appear much smaller in size, though still frightfully animated, ready to leap through the plexiglass with a single bound—if such a thing had been possible. "Best interests. An_nnd_… while we're on that subject, why _wouldn't_ I laugh?"

"Oh, I don't know," drawled Bruce, straightening out _his_ legs on _his_ bed. His bare toes skimmed the concrete floor; the faint outline of the bloodstain where _he_ had lain, three months ago, could still be seen. "Maybe the thought of eminent death is not exactly shits and giggles?"

"You have a foul mouth, Brucie."

"Can it, clown."

"No." Torn lips popped in annoyance. "And _for_ your information, I think death is _loads_ of fun. Why _else_ would I share it so often?"

"You're a murderous psychopath!"

Brown eyes fixed on their blue counterparts, as the Joker attempted to stare down the billionaire. Wayne gave no hint of apology for _his_ insult, glaring back with just as much intensity. The clown's red tongue snaked out to coat his lips, licking his chops—such a fiery temper, how delightfully delicious! This was just what the jester needed: someone who would stand up to him, who could be interesting while doing so. Someone _worthwhile_. If there had ever been any doubt in the Joker's mind that Wayne and the Batman were one and the same, such questions were gone now.

"Mur-_der_-ous," the jester pondered on the word, making a show of rolling his eyes upward, squinting one to give the exaggerated appearance of deep thought. He almost missed Wayne's own slight eye-roll: it was as if the vigilante had been tempted to show exasperation over the clown's antics, but was too wary to take _his_ eyes off the jester for even a second, plexiglass or no plexiglass. Such thoughts made the Joker want to smile, so he did.

"Murderous, _yes_," said the clown, "but even _scary_ people like murderers are _afraid_ of things, see? _I_ just happen to not be afraid of death."

Wayne shifted, but slightly, so slightly that the Joker almost missed the movement. Discomfort. Something in the jester's statement had upset _him_. The clown had just enough time to wonder what it was when Wayne asked, quietly,

"Death doesn't frighten you?"

"A_ha_," slipped out of the Joker's torn mouth. _Gotcha, _he wanted to say; You're cute when you're uncertain, Brucie, the girls must go ga-ga for you whenever you show your vulnerable side. "Didn't I just say? Why _would_ it? It's not like _Hell_ would be something I haven't seen _before_, hmm?"

"I—" And then, just like that, Wayne cut _himself _off. _He _must have realized that _his_ question had given too much away, had exposed too much of _his_ own mind, _his_ personal uncertainties and fears. It was too bad for _him _that the Joker's focus was unbreakable; like a hound that had caught the scent, he knew the game had begun. If only he could bring it to a conclusion before the guards came...

"Finish your sentence, Brucie," he cooed, as if to a willful child. "Don't leave me hanging—I _let_ you do that before, but this time it's only fair if you share what's on your mind. _Pretty penny_ for your thoughts!"

The Batman looked vaguely disturbed; surely _he_ now understood that the jester was digging. And yet, before the Joker could properly analyze the interplay of emotions on _his_ features, without warning the vigilante practically fell facedown on _his_ cot, then rolled over, facing the wall. Every fiber in _his_ being seemed to signal that _he_ believed their conversation to be over.

At first the Joker was surprised. Despite Wayne's reactions yesterday, he hadn't expected the vigilante to shut down so quickly and so completely. His next feeling was of self-reproach over his own astonishment: after all, this was the Batman, and if anyone on the face of the earth had the ability to be unpredictable, it was _him_. The Joker realized, then, that he must have lost a great amount of his mental acumen while holed up in Arkham. Given his previous interactions with the Bat Man, he should have known to expect the unexpected. It appeared as if all of these lessons had to be relearned, now that Wayne was his neighbor for the foreseeable future. Oh well, he thought—at least they would learn together.

Next, the Joker realized that he was affronted. He could stand many things—but someone intentionally ignoring him was not one of them. Especially _this_ someone, who was the one person who mattered to him in the whole of human existence. It took everything the jester had not to dissolve into a temper tantrum. Only the knowledge that it would mean Wayne's ultimate victory stopped the clown from pounding ceaselessly on the _damned plexiglass_ that separated their cells.

If he and Wayne had been in the same room... _then_ he would have shown the vigilante who was in control, who had the power in their relationship—or, at least, who had power until Wayne had been properly disillusioned from _his_ petty moral fantasies. As the current teacher in their interactions, the clown believed that he should have control over when their discussions would end.

Not to mention the fact that he couldn't resist the chance to pry at the Bat Man's psyche so early in the morning.

"Does..." the jester paused for a second, making sure he had the right words and the right vocal intonation. It wouldn't do to continue their conversation, only to show Wayne the tension underneath his mind—that would be just as bad as throwing a tirade, and would mean his certain defeat in this, which was only the second of their encounters since Wayne had arrived. To avoid seeming aggravated, and in the hope that Wayne might respond better to continued kindness, the clown injected concern and thoughtfulness into his voice. Not that he expected the Batman to be fooled, of course.

"Does... _death_... scare you, Brucie?" he prodded, trying but failing to keep a smile off his face and out of his tone as he continued, "_Why_ would that be, _hmm?_ Isn't the Batman all _virtuous_ and _pure_ under his black cape? What have you to fear of... _damnation_, eh? If you died, wouldn't it be all _sparkles_ and angels?"

Wayne was having none of it. _His_ words were quick and sharp, like they stung _his_ lips. "Shut up."

"_Answer_ the question," replied the Joker, just as quickly. Perhaps too quickly—it was never good to appear eager, he reflected morosely.

Silence.

Yes, the clown decided, he'd responded much too quickly. That, or Wayne was more pigheaded than the jester had expected. Then again, the Batman didn't seem like a morning person, so the Joker decided that he probably ought to expect more moodiness in general at this early hour. In any case it looked like Wayne was going to make him work for a proper reaction—something that the jester was altogether pleased with, since he thoroughly enjoyed challenges.

How should he approach this, the Joker pondered? Best to skirt around the issue, to draw Wayne's attention through an interesting anecdote, something intellectual and seemingly innocuous. Something unrelated, though he could then _make_ it relate to their situation. Something long and complicated. Frustrating. He quickly raked through his piecemeal mind, searching for a proper distraction. When he found the right example, he withheld yet another smile as he spoke.

"Did you _know_, Brucie... that the _Puritans_, way-back-when, believed in this idea of '_Illumination'_? The way it went, at one point you would have this _ultimate experience_, a temporary emptying of _rational_ thought, which _directed_ everything else in your life from then on. They believed that whatever you'd absorbed into your mind, up until that point, _influenced_ its direction. So... if you were a _good boy_ and went to Church, read your Bible, so _on_ so _forth_, then the Illumination would be from _God_ and it would turn you into a _model citizen_, a good person... who'd want to help _little grannies_ cross the street."

For a second, as he paused, the jester questioned whether or not this hook would be successful. Then Wayne stirred, slightly, and as the Joker held his breath—

"Is there a reason behind this rehash of elementary school history?"

_Bingo._

Keeping his exuberance down, the Joker allowed his voice to be playful, yet considerate. "Oh, _hush_. Who says there has to be a _reason_ for everything?"

"But—"

Ignoring the beginnings of Wayne's newest objection, the clown pressed onward. He couldn't allow the billionaire to speak, to gain control over their new conversation and sidetrack him from his ultimate goal. The Joker allowed some petulance to enter his words as he said, "And _besides_, I'm _not_ finished. Let me go on."

"Fine, then."

It was the first time the Batman had specifically requested that the Joker continue speaking. A giggle of anticipation wormed its way up the jester's throat, before he squashed his merriment in favor of his lesson. Teaching always came first—even when the student was as uncooperative as could be. _Especially_ then. If he could just get Wayne to _look at him_, then the Joker would have been overjoyed; however, Wayne seemed to know that this was the clown's goal, and so naturally was attempting to deny the jester any satisfaction whatsoever. _His _face appeared glued to the wall.

"Well, most people _know_ that the Puritans believed that God Illuminated people. What people don't know is that the Puritans _never_ believed that _only_ God could Illuminate. Say, if before your Illumination experience, you go out gambling and drinking and _a-whorin'_, as they called it. What do you suppose then?"

"God would smite you?" The vigilante's voice was almost playful, mocking the Joker through _his_ intentional stupidity.

The clown briefly considered rewarding the billionaire's newfound humor—this wasn't the first time in their conversation that Wayne had confronted him with comedy. It was a refreshing change, something that the Joker was almost willing to attribute to his own presence. After all, the Batman was much too serious all the time.

But then the clown recognized the teasing tone for what it was: a defense mechanism. Perhaps something even deeper, considering how easily the wit had flowed from Wayne's mouth. It was hard to imagine the Batman saying such things, so quickly and with such honest drollness. More than just a defense—almost like an entirely new persona...

Wayne's playboy act?

It made sense. Wayne had to be a good actor, had to find a way to divert attention from the obviousness of his nighttime identity. What better way than to pretend to be stupid, careless, and overtly comic? The Bat Man was none of those things.

Such a diametrical performance, though—it had to put a strain on _him_. The Joker had previously theorized that Wayne was using _his_ daytime self, with all its trappings of a thoughtless billionaire, as a shelter from prying questions. Only now, confronting the playboy, could the clown see how easily the curtain could be erected to shield Wayne's inner mind. How _practiced_ Wayne had to be, to fling up _his_ armor at a moment's notice—perhaps the vigilante didn't even realize what _he_ was doing.

Instead of rising to the bait, the Joker took it as further evidence of Wayne's discomfort, and pressed on:

"Oh, _please_. Be more _creative_."

"Just get to the point, Joker," sighed Wayne. Still _he_ didn't turn.

Yes, the jester decided, he was definitely speaking to the playboy: now the ne'er-do-well was pretending to be bored, seeing as someone like _him_ was only supposed to be interested in girls and cars, completely unable to follow intelligent conversation. Fascinating, how Wayne broke _his_ psyche up into these separate roles—and immediately, in the corner of his mind, the Joker's intellect began churning on this information, storing away a memory of this discussion to mull over later. If he was right, and Bruce Wayne was an act that the Batman put on to hide _his_ cape-and-cowl identity, then perhaps the way into the vigilante's brain was through using Bruce Wayne as a back door...

The Joker continued with his experiment, deciding to give in briefly and simply give Wayne the answer:

"They believed the Illumination would come from the_ Devil_ instead, Brucie. This meant the person would turn bad. Don't you see? What _better_ way to explain a sociopath?"

"Mental illness seems like a better explanation." And just like that, the playboy was gone. Replaced by a weary tone, a faceless man who was too tired to bother thinking. So much the worse for _him_ that the Joker found it no easier to stop thinking than to stop breathing.

"No, it _isn't_," insisted the clown. "See, Brucie, modern science has been _searchin'_ for an _answer_ to psychopaths, but they can't figure it out. Some were abused—some were coddled. Some have histories of mental flipouts—some just _snap_ one day. Supposedly they're extremely intelligent and logical, but they kill people without _reason_. Nobody anywhere can predict when the next one will show up. They don't make sense to so-_sigh_-eh-_tee_, see. And given that, what explanation is better than the Puritan's Illumination? Show me a _better answer!_"

The clown ended his example by pounding his fist on the plexiglass, trying to gain Wayne's direct attention through emphasis. The sound of flesh striking the glass ricocheted through the tunnel, before drowning in the long echo of the well.

"Well, according to what you just said, I can't." Idly, Wayne picked at the lint on his shirt. _He_ gave no sign that _he_ was in any way affected by the Joker's show of force. Two could play at that game: the Joker likewise gave no hint that Wayne's disregard affected him. In another place and another time, he might have found Wayne's recalcitrance amusing, perhaps even admirable—but right now it was just frustrating.

"Exactly!" chortled the clown, just as merrily as if Wayne had actually bothered to turn and face him; but then, at the billionaire's continued attempt to ignore him, he turned serious. Leaning close to the glass, that _damned plexiglass_ that _dared_ to separate their cells, he gave his last and best attempt, keeping the frustration from his voice, "So, then, Brucie. What's _your_ Illumination experience?"

And_ that_ caught the Batman's attention. "Excuse me?"

If the suddenness of Wayne's exclamation hadn't let the jester realize that forcing the question on _him_ had renewed the billionaire's interest, the other man's shifting on _his_ cot certainly would have alerted the clown. Wayne turned so that _he_ was no longer facing the wall, but the ceiling—allowing the Joker a glimpse at _his_ eyes, so very expressive even while not directly looking at the clown. Yet _his_ decision not to turn all the way toward the plexiglass still spoke of _his_ unwillingness, even when _his_ hand was forced by the jester's inquiry.

Inwardly, the Joker rejoiced; he was winning, but had not yet conquered. At this sign of the vigilante's renewed attention, the clown fired off a sequence of statements like machine gun pellets:

"You dress up like a _bat_. Jump _off_ skyscrapers. Beat criminals to a pulp—with your _bare hands_. You're telling me this is normal behavior?"

He was perhaps a bit too impatient, for Wayne easily turned the tables on him. "So says the guy in a purple suit with clown makeup."

Fortunately quick-thinking saved the jester, even if his retort sounded childish. "Yeah, but _you_ started it."

"Actually, Crane had a mask way before me." If the change in subject matter hadn't alerted the Joker to what the vigilante was doing, the light-heartedness in Wayne's voice would have. This statement was yet another diversionary tactic, and not a very good one. Inwardly, the clown restrained a snigger; Brucie had to really be feeling the pinch in the corners of _his_ mind, if this was the best _he_ could come up with.

"Oh, come on," the clown drawled, "I _seriously_ doubt that you knew that before you started. Since when would _you_ copy ole Scarecrow?"

He would have leaned forward even further, had the plexiglass allowed him. As it was, all he could do was splay his palms against the surface, pressing until he felt the blood flee his fingers and doubtless turn the inside of his hands into a pale white. "You're unique, Batman. _Admit it_."

Despite the clown's best attempt to order the Bat Man into a confession, Wayne chose to evade him again. _He_ was like a wild colt, the Joker reflected; bucking, twisting, jumping and dodging, trying anything to avoid the bit and the spur, defying _his_ captor.

Unfortunately for such animals, their resistance was the whole reason why man had invented the rodeo, for humanity had long since learned to take enjoyment from their wild attempts at freedom. In the same way, the jester found himself exulting that Wayne was so uncooperative—the more _he_ resisted, the better the satisfaction the Joker would feel, once the Batman had been driven long and hard and _his _struggle came to its only logical end.

"I did what I did for a reason, Joker." The billionaire's voice was firm, as if this could ward off any further arguments. _His_ blue eyes focused on the ceiling, unseeing. Withdrawn. "I intended to intimidate. How better to do that than to be downright scary, even to seem insane?"

The Joker already had a counterargument ready, before his companion had even finished speaking.

"There's a fine line between _seeming_ and _being_, Brucie. As you said yourself last night, you _must be crazy_. If you're crazy, it follows that you had a trigger—an _Illumination_. What was it? Just wake up one day and decide you'd've rather been born a bat?"

"Maybe I did." The vigilante's voice was cold, tight-lipped as a sealed tin can. It was a good thing, the Joker reflected, that he knew the best uses of can openers.

On the plexiglass, the Joker's fingers twitched, but his gaze never stopped piercing into the other man. He allowed disappointment to bleed into his words: "_Ah_, Batsy..."

The jester shook his head, matted hair swaying in silent admonition, while he was careful to lower his voice and make his words as soothing as possible. Best not to gloat over his impending victory—he wanted to have fun with Wayne, not become _his_ tormentor. That job would fall to Varnham. "_Share_ and _share_ alike. If we're going to coexist down here, we'd better be able to com_mun_icate, see. I'm just trying to play twenty questions, no need to be..." he paused, just a second, to find the right word, "..._defensive_."

There was a tick in the Bat Man's jaw, the Joker watching avidly as it twitched and tensed, the perfectly flawless lips thin and stern—_how_ could _he_ fight crime and not be gifted with a permanently busted lip? Despite this stray pondering, the clown was already quite prepared when the billionaire once again chose to turn the question on him. It was only natural: the last defense of a wounded animal was to attack whatever frightened _him_.

"Well then, Joker. What was _your_ Illumination?"

He gave no hint that he was ready for the query—instead, all laughter was gone and only solemnity reigned in the Joker's mind. Time to play his winning hand, to see if the Batman's bet was honest or if he would attempt to cheat and claim victory nonetheless. The difference would be all in Wayne's eyes.

The jester smiled coldly.

"_You_ were, Brucie."

It was hard to know what reaction to expect from Wayne—and as the billionaire froze, _his_ chest even pausing in mid-breath, the Joker's own breathing also ceased. And then he saw the Batman's eyes, the confusion and the turmoil that the jester's confession had created. Then understanding seemed to dawn—then horror, as the other man seemed to realize how the clown was crediting his own existence to the Batman—and then, as the flow of Wayne's thoughts naturally turned toward self-analysis, to see whether or not the Joker's statement had been true—

Any further reaction, however, was lost to the Joker: for the slam of the tunnel's doors distracted both Bat and Clown, and by the time the jester's eyes had returned to Wayne's face, the chance to decipher the billionaire's response was far gone. Inwardly, the Joker growled; a silent sound that, if voiced, would have uncannily mimicked the Batman's own chest-deep rumbles.

Confounded morons, the jester wanted to howl, as the guards stopped by his cell door, If you'd just waited _ten more seconds!_

This was worse than Gordon interrupting him the night he'd chased Harvey through Gotham. At least then the surprise had been just slightly pleasant, because it had confirmed the Joker's suspicions that the future police commissioner was still helping the Batman from his own set of shadows. Being interrupted _now_ served no purpose, gave the Joker no satisfaction whatsoever...

And then the clown saw that Wayne's door was being opened, too.

There was a moment of disbelief, shared by both Jester and Knight, during which both were silent, unmoving. As one, they stared at their respective doorways, the two sets of keys in the guards' hands, and finally sought out the other's face. It was only natural that the Joker's lips spread into a large, cheek-creasing grin; the Batman answered with a frown so deep, it looked like it had been cut into _his_ flesh.

"Wha'd'ya _know?_" The clown sing-songed, "Did good ole' Varny-hammie _tell_ ya about _this_, Brucie?"

Batman gave no answer.

Secretly, the clown was gloating. Already Varnham had begun to show his untrustworthiness, if he was going to release both Wayne and the Joker together on their first day. The jester had known that such a thing would probably happen eventually, of course—when Slink had been his neighbor, it was not uncommon for him and the hairless man to begin their days together, though they were often separated after their midday therapy sessions.

But the clown had assumed that Varnham would allow Wayne some time to accept the Joker's presence, emotionally, before placing them in the same room without barriers. It appeared as if Arkham's head had more of a scheme than the Joker had expected. Obviously, the clown realized, the Scarecrow was right: Varnham indeed had "some sort of strategy" involving them both.

Not that this was a good thing. It easily could have meant that Varnham was attempting to keep alive the animosity between the crusader and _his_ nemesis. Wouldn't that be just like Arkham's head, the clown reflected—place Wayne in an emotionally devastating position, and then turn around and pretend he was the white knight by saving _him_ from it. By making the Joker into the "bad guy" (or, rather, by _reminding_ Wayne that the jester was the "bad guy"), Varnham could make his own actions more acceptable, turning himself into Wayne's ally in the philosophical debate between the Batman and the clown.

In other words, Varnham could be attempting to do exactly what the Joker hoped to do himself.

Jamesie, you devious little stinker, thought the Joker, and he found that his smile had diminished, becoming wooden and forced. Despite his less than pleasant realizations, it wouldn't do to lose face, since the guards expected a laughing psychopath. He had a reputation to keep. So he kept the smile in place, as his brown eyes darted quickly across each of the guards' faces.

Some of them he knew, others he didn't—one of them, a tan fellow with oily hair and an unkempt look, was recognized as the man who had returned that night, three months ago, to hoist an unconscious Bruce Wayne up onto _his_ cot. The jester was unsure what reward such a deed had earned: as it currently was, the fellow was classified in the "if found after an escape, kill quickly and only torture as necessary" option. This was only because he had provided such amusement in fleeing the Joker that night, and hadn't yet distinguished himself otherwise.

The guard in charge was another somewhat familiar face, though not because he had been one of the men participating in Wayne's beating. He was what the Joker mentally referred to as a "skulker," because he appeared at odd times and places, and almost never could be spotted doing the same job twice. As a result, the clown didn't know the man's name, but had nicknamed the fellow "Blondie," because of his over-bleached hair and slow uptake. It was he who first spoke up to the two inmates.

"No trouble, either of you, or so help me—" he lifted a small, black box, for their inspection, "You are gonna be tasered. I have a 'press the button first, ask questions later' policy."

"Well _that_ was a clever turn of phrase," the Joker remarked, sliding his gaze in Wayne's direction, and nodding to the vigilante in attempt to get _his_ agreement. The other prisoner didn't respond. "I really think he ought to write _that_ one down."

Wayne, though now sitting upright on _his _cot, appeared to have somehow shrunken in on _himself_. With burning eyes _he_ watched the closest guard fiddle with _his_ door's keys, and _he _tensed as the numbers on the electronic keypad were dialed. The click of the door's lock was heard, but _he_ made no move toward the open exit. _He_ looked like a trapped animal, desiring to bolt but having nowhere to go.

Poor fellow, the Joker wanted to sigh. You really want to fight, don't you? Why you won't, I really don't know—I'd love to join in. It'd be worth a month in solitary, just to get one good bite into Blondie's ear.

"Well?" Blondie barked, making a quick beckoning gesture. "Come on, or do you want to be carried?"

Slowly, hesitance showing through _his_ every move, Wayne uncoiled _his_ limbs from the cot's covers and stood, carefully avoiding looking at the Joker through the plexiglass. The clown caught the way that the billionaire's fists flinched as the cuffs were slapped onto _his_ wrists, the touch of hard, cold metal aggravating _his_ bruises. The guard cuffing _him_ did not bother to be gentle with _his_ left hand, either, which still bore a cast from being crushed underfoot on Wayne's first night.

The jester likewise made no attempt to resist his own cuffing, wanting to give Wayne no chance to play the hero by bashing his unpainted head into the wall. Instead he smiled serenely, obediently entering into the hallway and falling into step beside the vigilante, whose bare feet practically dragged on the floor as they were led down the hall.

When their cell doors slid shut behind them, the resounding clang only served to bring a satisfied smirk to the Joker's lips, as he caught Wayne's jump of surprise from the corner of his eye. Giving the Batman what he intended to be a nudge of solidarity with his shoulder, he found himself shoved back so forcefully that he nearly hit the floor. He refrained from breaking out into laughter mainly because Blondie was suddenly between him and Wayne, waiving the taser in Wayne's face and gabbing about the button-and-question policy. The Batman gave no sign that the guard's lecture affected _him_ in any way, merely continuing to stare down the Joker, who was jiggling eyebrows at _him_ exaggeratedly behind Blondie's back.

"You okay?" Blondie paused in his tirade, glancing over at the jester, who shrugged.

"It's, ah, _no_ problem," the clown stated, straightening out and walking forward with a dignified air. Beside him, the Batman's growl ruined the jester's poise by adding a bounce to his steps.

The sound of the Joker's sniggering trailed them down the hall.

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_Singing the same song at a different tone,_

_In thoughts, destined to die, unknown._

_Born unto a world not of our own,_

_We walked together, walking alone._

— Michael R. Anderson, _Walking Alone_

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**000 Author's Note 000**

Whew. Parts of that were actually fun to write. Hope they were as fun to read.

Once again so much thank-you's for my reviewers: sugarhype, ber1719, xKillthelights, Nightlight09, Endgame65, Computerfreak101, andaere, XenoZime, anonymous_fog, MaDdsterr, batfan (twice!), I Spaz With Pizzazz, OutcastToReality, ChasingProse, Vanafindiel, batman-no1, Angel Dumott Schunard, The Joker's Ears and Eyes, KayosHybrid, Shmelly, XxJagzxX, nak321, Zaerith-Chan, CaitieKat, Squidney, vballmania23, ElementaryPenguins (twice!), jokergirl4ever, Adi Sagestar, sailorsw, water kangaroo (THREE times!), WaffleNinja, DawnStag, Kalashnikov2092, SayahYagashi, realityfling18 , Rebecca The Animorph, all-mad13, lady Jelly Sandwich, The King of Soda, Payce99, Nemrut, Tatsumaki-sama, Elerrina Star, & anastasiyafokina.

You all really helped with this story, never letting me forget about it, and encouraging me to continue. Thank you so much!


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